


Reunion

by MuseOnTheLoose



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-05-14 15:41:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 39,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14772443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MuseOnTheLoose/pseuds/MuseOnTheLoose
Summary: This chapter inspired & informed by: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kbzEJSpABog





	1. Chapter 1

Maybe if he hadn’t been away so long. Maybe if he hadn’t cleared his dressing room of the photos of his family, his son’s framed soccer jersey, the random parts of a bike he’d been assembling, the pile of black reading glasses — some broken, but taped up, because he said they were still perfectly good, and because he can be so disarmingly nerdy — maybe then she wouldn’t have realized how much she’d miss him when he was gone from her life…

He didn’t call or text to update her on his contract negotiations... and why would he, she told herself — it’s not like they had contact outside of work. They didn’t reassign his room, just gave it to the day players, so that was a good sign… and as his absence dragged on, she’d find herself wandering in when no one was there, and she’d settle into the sleek, black swivel chair he never found comfortable — though he never seemed comfortable sitting anywhere... always squirming and shifting positions, especially during read-throughs… and she’s not easily distracted, but that drove her crazy and he knew it, but couldn’t help himself. And when she’d lay a hand on his knee to settle him, he’d make a guilty, exasperated sound, swat himself on the head with his rolled-up script and laugh-groan, “Sorrysorrysorrysorry”…

And it’s stupid things like that she'd miss as she sat in the sleek, black swivel chair, pushing the floor with her toe to turn slowly from blank wall to mirror to blank wall and back again, and she’d wonder what he was doing in New York… if he ever thought of her…

So it’s a surprise when she sees him, far away down the hall, laughing, talking, surrounded by people — looking fit and tan and beautiful in jeans and a t-shirt. Her chest tightens painfully until she can barely breathe, and in that moment, all the other things she’s been missing — but has been too terrified to acknowledge — come crashing over her like a tidal wave, and she stands frozen, staring, incapable of thought or speech or action…

When he catches sight of her over the dark head of a co-worker, he stops speaking in mid-sentence, his animated smile changing, softening… and he moves through the crowd to her, his warm hazel eyes fixed on her face, and he sweeps her into a bear hug, lifting her to her toes, strong arms holding her tight to his chest… and she has to bite back a sob as she feels his breath in her hair, his heart beating fast under her cheek…

He hangs on a bit too long, or maybe she does… and when they separate, she’s mortified by the hot blush in her cheeks, but there isn’t a damn thing she can do in that crowd except summon her poise, smile and say brightly, “Hey, welcome back!”

He smiles gently. “Good to be back.”

Someone claps him on the shoulder then with a boisterous greeting, he turns toward the sound… and that’s when she makes her escape. 

# 

Her own dressing room has always been a sanctuary from the dramas and oversized egos that can poison this place… but as she drops back against the door, she can't bear to look at the usually-comforting bits of her home life arrayed on the table by the couch — the kids’ hand-made gifts and artwork, photos of them, of her husband... of all of them... smiling, happy, content. And it’s all genuine… it’s all true.

At least, it  _was_ …

Two Get-Out-of-Jail-Free cards each. That’s what she and her husband had agreed to a few months back — a sort of safety-valve for when the strains of kids and boredom and unfulfilled expectations began to take their toll. She can’t remember who proposed it, but it must have been him… since he’d wasted no time taking advantage of the deal. 

 _One-night stands, that’s all_ , he’d told her when she’d confronted him with the damning emails.  _With people who don’t matter, people who aren’t a threat to our marriage. Safe people_ , he’d said.

That was the point, after all — to preserve the marriage. And she hadn’t cried, hadn’t asked questions… and she wishes it had bothered her more, especially because she knows there are no safe people. Not for her, anyway. If she’s attracted to someone enough to want to sleep with them, they are, by definition, not safe. That’s why she has no intention of using either of her cards.

At least, she  _hadn’t_ … 

She breathes deeply to center herself, ventures to open her eyes. No, there’s nothing scary here, nothing she can’t handle — what she’s feeling is simply relief at the return of a valued colleague. The suddenness of it caught her off guard, that’s all. It’s understandable that she’d be glad to see him — she’s been relegated to the background again since his departure, he’s fun and challenging to work with, she can bitch to him about dialogue and bosses and co-workers… and she loves the way he looks at her — or rather, of course, the way his character looks at her character — with an adoration and hunger that makes her feel beautiful and desirable and precious. Things she hasn’t felt in a very long time. And it’s nice, even if it’s only pretend…

But he looked at her that same way in the hallway just now… not at her character… at  _her_ … 

She swallows hard, tries to reason her way through the renewed tangle of emotions, to put them in their place. And that place is  _far_   _away_ …

The light tap on the door is not unexpected, but it comes much too soon…

“Hey, you in there…?” 

She drops her head, squeezes her eyes shut, pretends her heart isn’t pounding. It’s not likely that she feels him on the other side — his heat, his  _essence_  — but she does. He knocks again, just above her head. She has no intention of opening the door to him, and yet her hand is turning the knob, pulling, and with a small wave she’s inviting him in… 

His eyes slide in her direction but don’t land as he moves past her. Once inside, he seems to swallow the room, not only with his size — in these pink slippers of hers, she barely reaches his shoulders — but with a gentle charisma that always puts her both at ease, and on guard against the seductive pull of it. He starts to speak, stops, glances around a bit stiffly, then goes to the table full of photos in antique frames. He leans over and scans them slowly, hands stuffed in his pockets, and he doesn’t say a word.

She hasn’t closed the door yet, is clutching the knob so hard her hand aches. Her mouth is dry and she’s desperate to fill the silence, but can’t think of a thing to say. It’s bizarre that they should be so awkward with each other, after so much laughter and teasing, shared gripes, deep conversation, physical intimacy — she knows the scent of his hair, the taste of his sweat, the feel of his hands on her naked back — they should be catching up, joking… but instead the tension between them is almost unbearable…

It’s probably because the situation is odd, she tells herself. He rarely came to her dressing room before, is offering no reason for being here now… but she can still feel the echo of his arms around her, his reluctance to part… and she can’t help but stare at his back, at the way his thin t-shirt is stretching across his broad shoulders, the way his tight jeans hug his ass… 

“You cut your hair,” she says lightly, to distract herself. She doesn’t mention that she misses it already, that she loved it long, that it was gorgeous and reminded her of her youth — of hours spent watching him play Todd Manning… mesmerized by him, inspired… fantasizing…

But he’s busy touching the picture frames one by one, lingering on some, tilting others for a closer look, then carefully setting them back. When he reaches the photo of her kids as toddlers, perched on Santa’s lap, he withdraws his hand and stares, brow furrowing… 

“Yeah… I, uh, thought I was starting a new chapter,” he says softly, as though only now realizing she’d spoken. “Seemed like the thing to do…,” 

A strong impulse seizes her — to go to him, take his hand, tell him how much she missed her scene partner and ally… missed  _him_  — and she knows, as surely as she knows her name, that if he stays here one more moment, she’ll do something foolish. 

“Well,” she says, voice strained and unnaturally bright. “I need to—,”

“—Right… okay.” He turns toward her with a small, tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Good. So… see you at the read-through.”

He starts toward the open door and she nods, eyes on the floor, sagging with relief that this torture is ending. But she looks up when he stops dead in front of her.

“You know…,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, but he doesn’t continue. His face is the picture of conflict — jaw tight, face flushed — and she waits, heart racing, willing him to leave, yet praying he doesn’t. Finally he sighs, lifts his hand… and touches her cheek with his fingertips. It’s a  _real_  touch — not discussed or rehearsed, not staged for the camera — and it’s so full of affection and longing it takes her breath away.

It lasts for only an instant. Before she can react, he drops his hand, smiles sadly, turns and leaves without a word.

Stunned, she closes the door behind him and rests her forehead on the cool wood. He’d said nothing… and everything. And she knows that the next move — if there’s to be one — is hers.

**_To be continued…_ **


	2. Chapter 2

He longs to touch her — always has.

Her skin. Flawless, luminous, porcelain… or softer, like buttercream beneath his hands…

All are thoughts he can’t have… so he thinks of her this way: physical beauty quickly becomes invisible to the eye. He knows this, has learned it from years in a superficial business. What grows increasingly sharp and clear is character. What becomes radiant — so radiant it’s both unbearable to be near and excruciating to be barred from — is kindness, quiet dignity, a serenity that holds you close and smooths the creases until you’re ready to face the world again…

She glides. She smiles. She  _is_ … and he can barely speak.

#

“Is this okay,” he'd asked her not so long ago, as his fingers caressed her inner arm.

“I like the way you touch me,” she'd answered… and she said it the way a lover would, low and intimate. After a beat, she seemed to realize how it sounded and her eyes flew wide. “I mean… I don’t mean… it’s not…,” she’d stammered… 

He'd longed to let her finish the thought — partly to tease her, partly to watch her rare loss of composure play out — but she looked so mortified he stepped in and laughed it off to rescue her.

And instead of her inner arm, satin-silk beneath his fingertips, he caressed her wrist… safer, yet so small he could easily encircle it, grasp it, use it to pull her to him… but he didn’t… and won’t.

Not until she gives him permission.

_I like the way you touch me…_

Once it truly sank in, that statement changed everything. He still asks before touching her — early on, she'd had so many rules — but now she trusts him, and she says she doesn’t know how it will feel until it happens, so she lets him touch her, here and here and there… and then she decides what to keep for the camera. He’s attuned to her responses, watches her... wants to touch her in ways that please her, wants her to always be thinking those words…

_I like the way you touch me…_

Yet he needs to remain in character at all times, so she can’t get any deeper inside him than she already has.

He receives it all that way — in character. Everything she does with and to him in a scene… every kiss, every touch, every trembling sigh… he allows them to penetrate only far enough to trigger a reaction for the camera, before they hit the shell of the  _real_  him and bounce harmlessly away.

Pretend. It’s all pretend in those outer layers. But it’s not pretend deep inside. It’s not pretend when she melts into his arms in a crowded hallway… when her blush is like fire on her white skin.

That sinks in… all the way in.

He’s not sure what he expected when he went to her dressing room. He hadn’t thought it through, just needed to be near her. But those pictures, those innocent faces in silver filigree frames... it wasn’t hard to walk away then. And he should have kept going, not stopped, not touched her… because that was an overture.

And she knew it — he saw it in those huge, bottomless eyes that always watch so intently as she listens to things unsaid... until it's her turn to speak, and then she looks away, knowing there’s so much to say... and  _not_  say, and that you have to think first and be very, very careful…

So much more careful than he’s been.

But this is a time of miracles and backspaces and delete keys… and truth is a mutable thing…

 

**_To be continued..._ **


	3. Chapter 3

So he stands frozen after leaving her dressing room, touching his lips… fingertips still warm with the feel of her skin, mind clouded from the nearness of her... and decides to pretend that nothing happened. 

Or maybe he’ll throw open the door again, push her against the wall, say things he has no business saying…  _do_  things…

But what if he’s wrong, if he’s misreading her and her blush signaled only her usual shyness in front of a crowd…

But what if he’s right… and the blush meant everything? He stares hard at her door, feels her on the other side… so close. So fucking close…

He turns on his heel and walks way. 

#

She hadn’t contacted him at all while he’d been in New York… not that he’d expected her to. They’d had a very close working relationship, but that’s it. She’d always kept her personal life separate — she had her husband and her kids, and she probably rarely spared him a thought, even when he was around. And if they never saw each other again, he assumed that would be fine with her… she’d go on to the next storyline, the next pairing, as she has for twenty years…

He hadn’t known what he was going on to… but he knew it would take awhile for her exquisite face to fade from his mind…

It had been a tremendous relief at first, to be home, to stay put for the summer. The coast-to-coast commute had gotten exhausting and he’d begun to feel like a visitor among his own family, only hearing about things he should have been part of, as his wife and kids got on with their lives. This would be a chance to reconnect with them all… and most importantly, to repair the obvious frays in the fabric of his marriage…

But what became quickly and heartbreakingly apparent… was that neither he nor his wife really cared to. They interacted with a mildly affectionate indifference… like old friends with little left in common. The few times he tried to talk to her about it, she just shrugged and said  _give it time_ …

Time. Weeks passed, months passed, but it made no difference… and with too  _much_  time on his hands, he grew fidgety, missed a sense of play and purpose… thought more and more about hopping on a plane back to LAX, back to something that had sparked a low flame in his gut, something he didn’t want to dwell on. Instead, he took to wandering the cobbled streets of Tribeca late into the night, reluctant to settle into the Eastern time zone, resisting the noise and grime, and the idea that something special might have come to a premature and permanent end…

He’d been watching a Premiere League match on TV one afternoon. Arsenal went down in flames and he was grumpy, absently clicking through the channels… and there she was, glowing in crimson scrubs, flipping through a chart at the Nurses’ Station — the hub, they call it on set.His gut lurched like he’d suddenly lost altitude and he sat upright, eyes glued to the screen. Two lines and a reaction shot, that’s all she had in that scene — no discernible story. Back-burnered again, since he’d been gone. Guilt… yes, there was guilt, and he’d almost called her then and there… but what could he say from his limbo that would make anything better?

So he’d watched the show, heart leaping at each glimpse of those crimson scrubs — just nostalgic for the rhythms of the place, he told himself — but he could feel the ghost of her hand on his chest, could remember the pleasure of making her giggle, the way she tucked so perfectly under his chin when he wrapped her in his arms…

He'd been trying to banish those thoughts, to ignore the acute joy the mere sight of her gave him… when he sensed his wife standing behind him… her eyes also on the screen, also locked onto those crimson scrubs. Once, he might have quickly changed the channel out of guilt… but this time, he just left it on…

Years ago, they had decided on a sort of _flexibility_  — their term for occasional lapses in fidelity — with no questions, no indiscretions, no recriminations. And only one rule — no one leaves. As if they could have at that point… as if they hadn’t grown so intertwined that separating would have required excising parts of their souls.

But now…

He’d felt her hand slip into his hair, give it a gentle ruffle. “Do what you have to do,” she’d said quietly, and walked away. She might have been referring to the contract negotiations, about returning to the show and the grueling commute… but he knew she wasn’t.

Because she knows him better than he knows himself.

#

He raids the vending machine, makes sure to get to the Green Room early, arranges the bottles of water and bags of snacks on the table. No Funyuns — she'd told him once, so sweetly, that they make his breath  _kind of nasty_  — so it’s pretzels and chips for him, and some chocolate for her, which she’ll swear she won’t eat, but always does. It’ll be just the two of them, running lines as they have hundreds of times, but he needs to prepare himself, clear his head, make a decision…

He rubs his thumb over his fingertips… maddeningly, the feel of her skin isn’t fading. Neither is the memory of her blush — fire on white. Neither is this powerful ache inside. Or the vision of pain and warning that had flashed in her luminous eyes when he’d touched her earlier…

_Do what you have to do…_

What he has to do is let go — of anything that might hurt her, or disrupt her life. He has to let it go. Pretending works both ways — he can pretend to feel what he doesn’t feel… and he can pretend  _not_  to feel what he  _does_  feel.

Simple as that.

And so much better for everyone…

#

She knocks lightly before pushing the door open. He half rises from his chair, drops back down again... resolve vanishing the moment he sees her. Her hair is up in a loose bun, she’s looking down at her pages... and he’s captivated by her neck — long, pale, swan-like...

But she’s all business.

“There’s a few days worth of stuff to get through,” she says, gliding into the chair next to him. He laugh-groans as she drops a handful of yellow highlighters and Sharpies in front of him — he always forgets to bring his… and she always remembers. She glances at him with a small, tentative smile, a slight tremble in her lips… and the distinct, tense air of prey in the lion’s den.

His heart sinks as he understands what it means — he’s lost her trust. Such a precious thing, and he’ll have to earn it all over again. He draws breath to speak, to backpedal, explain away what happened in her dressing room… but instead he slips on his game face and gestures grandly to the table.

“Behold, a bounty of snacks,” he announces… and is relieved to see her arch a brow and give him the side-eye.

“What am I pretending not to eat this time?”

He huffs a laugh and tries to relax into the familiarity of her presence, into the warmth that, even through her defensiveness, seems to embrace and comfort him…

“Been a long time,” he says, blinking back a sudden surge of the thing he's chosen to ignore.

“Too long,” she nods... and looks at him then, deeply, intensely, and he realizes she’s speaking in their silent language of facial expressions — the one they’ve developed in these months of pretending at intimacy...

 _It’s okay,_ she’s saying… _We’re still us, nothing has changed… nothing_ will _change… do you understand…?_

He understands, as clearly as if she'd spoken. And he also understands, like a stinging slap, that if communication like this is possible between them, there’s been nothing  _pretend_ about their intimacy… nothing at all…

But this is as far as it will ever go. Because that’s what she wants.

He pulls a deep breath, absorbs her meaning and the painful finality of it into his bones… and nods. “Okay,” he says, and really lets it go now — his hopes, illusions, fantasies — lets them all drift away like music on a breeze. And he dismisses the warmth in his fingertips as a figment of his imagination.

“So, tell me,” he says, like a weight has been lifted. “What’s been happening around this joint?”

She gives him a glorious, grateful smile… grabs, squeezes and releases his hand all in one motion. And then they’re off… gossiping and laughing like old friends, about co-workers and crappy storylines, catching each other up on the superficial details of their lives, the dramas of their kids…. noisily tearing into bags of junk food and chomping away… well, he’s chomping. She’s delicately picking through her pile of M&Ms, eating the brown ones first… then the greens, working her way through the rainbow like she always does, saving the yellows for last…

He isn't aware that he’s stopped speaking in mid-sentence to watch her — his heart twisting in his chest — until she glances up.

“So… then what?”

“What…?” He’d been in the middle of some anecdote — something about his dog — but he can’t for the life of him remember where he was headed. He clears his throat, sits up — hopes, illusions, fantasies swooping down on him again in a rush of wind that deafens him. He slips on his glasses, reaches for the pages.

“We should probably get to this.”

She straightens up too, looking a bit startled. “You have a hot date or something?”

He laughs, but it sounds so awkward he wishes he hadn’t.

#

 _Exterior: Kelly's Diner_.

They’re running lines for the scene of their first meeting, all but ignoring the stage directions because the air has become strangely thick between them…

“So, yeah, more kissing… okay, we’ll block this later, too…,” he says, shooting her a quick glance, making a mark on the page with his Sharpie.

They’ve had dozens of similar conversations in the past, about when and where to touch, to kiss... especially  _how_  — how close, how much, how intimate, how lingering — but none have ever felt this charged.

“Right. Yeah, definitely,” she says, tapping her yellow highlighter on the table. It’s a new tic, one he could actually find annoying… if not for the beautiful pink spreading over her cheeks as she bites her lip, stares down at her script...

He suddenly imagines lifting her onto the table, spreading her thighs… and he zaps the thought into oblivion, focuses on her voice…

“... Unless… I mean, we could just do it now…,” she’s saying, trailing off, barely looking at him…

“Whatever you want.” He curses himself yet again for going to her dressing room, for touching her cheek, for crossing a line they’ve only crossed once before…

But maybe they’re even… because the last time, it was  _her_  fault…

He’s always let his scene partner set the kissing parameters. In his view, mouths are private, open mouths are intimate, tongues are generally reserved for lovers... but he defers to the woman. Some have been chaste, some voracious… and he’s just gone with it, as long as it's in character. She had been on the chaste side... lips soft, never tight, yet never yielding. But as trust deepened, as eye contact lengthened, as touches grew more sensuous and lingering — and he’d had to fight harder to stay apart, not let her in — she’d been slower to end the kisses, shallow and theatrical though they were… licking her lips afterward in a way he found mesmerizing…

Rehearsing their first love scene, the mood had been tentative and exploratory — for themselves, as well as for their characters. They'd blocked every movement, and as planned, she’d brushed his lip with her thumb… then kissed him. But she’d really kissed him… deeply, with an emotion and carnality that threw him. He’d disengaged as much as he could and let it continue, but when they'd parted... she wouldn’t meet his eyes. He’d felt her, tasted her for an hour afterward — he didn’t really, but he imagined he could, every time his mind rebelliously revisited the moment. And later that day, during actual taping, he’d let her set the pace and tone… but there’d been no hint of what had gone before. 

Neither one said a word about it… and it didn’t happen again. But he’s never been able to forget…

#

_Interior: Elizabeth's Bedroom._

“Wow, Imogene!” she says, highlighter squeaking on the script. “I love that they’re finally giving her some agency!”

Several scenes later, and they’ve relaxed, have their feet propped up on the table. It all feels normal again… the script is just words on paper, they’re just actors doing their job…

“So… where were we…,” she says, scanning the page. “Okay… they’re standing there, kissy-kissy, touchy-touchy, loving looks. You know, we should—,”

“— Do the intertwined fingers thing."

“Exactly!" she beams. "Oh,  _nice_ … she pushes him down on the bed. Go Liz!”

They both laugh… and he finds, as he watches her gray eyes sparkle, that he can’t seem to stop smiling. They’ve been finishing each other’s sentences for the better part of an hour now, trading ideas, voices rising with excitement… and he can’t remember the last time he felt so happy.

“She’s on top of him, bra coming off… wait a second.” She flips back and forth between pages like she missed something. “This is weird… he’s rolling on top of her, and then it cuts to him up on his knees…?”

He watches her over the rim of his glasses, waits for her to get it… sees from her blank expression that she won’t. It often amazes him how innocent she can be...

“Well…,” he says, deciding how to phrase it. “One reading... is that he’s just gone down on her…,”

It’s no sooner out of his mouth then he sees it, feels it… her milky thighs cradling his face, her back arching, fingers grasping his hair. It’s such a jarring intrusion, such an abrupt shift in mood that he scowls and shoves it forcefully aside.

But her cheeks are flaming, eyes flying wide at the page like it suddenly morphed into pornography. “Oh… of course!” she laughs. “Right.  _Wow_.”

He watches her blush spread to her chest, peek through the open buttons just above the curve of her breasts… and she’s biting her lip now...

_I like the way you touch me..._

Her words echo in his head and he needs to work to keep his breathing steady as the images return, evolve… and he feels himself hardening…

“We’re doing this in  _Daytime_  now?” She gapes at him like he can supply an explanation…

“Well… maybe not every couple, but you said it yourself — Elizabeth has more agency now, she expects to receive… satisfaction from Franco. And he’d want to give that to her, right?” he says, trying to sound casual, detached… but his voice is too low, too suggestive… and he’s feeling it too deeply. “They’ve been apart for months… missing each other…”

She’s watching him, expression softening... and he can't help but lay his glasses on the table, lower his feet to the floor, lean forward and sink deliberately into her eyes…

“He’s been longing for her,” he says, recalling his lonely nighttime walks, the thoughts he didn’t want… his joy at seeing her on his screen. And he imagines touching her now, finding her wet and ready… tasting her, hearing her cry out…

Her lips are moist, parting slightly, eyes darkening… yet he can tell she’s wary, not quite sure how to read him. And he’s not sure himself what the fuck he’s doing… just that he can’t spend another minute of his life not  _being_  with her…

“He’s aching for her,” he whispers. “He’d want to give her that pleasure. He’d do anything for her…”

The air is electric, and her pupils are dilating. “Would he…?” she says, just a breath of sound that penetrates to his core… and he would… in that moment he would. He knows he needs to dial it back,  _right now_  — but instead he drops from the chair to his knees beside her, intending only to take her face in his hands… ask her what she wants… but somehow his fingers are in her hair, pulling her toward him… and then he’s kissing her, harder than he means too, her lips are parting with a small cry, her impossibly soft tongue is slipping into his mouth… and then they’re grappling for each other, hands everywhere… and she’s so openly hungry it stuns him, makes him crazy…

Through the roaring in his mind, he’s expecting to hear one of them say,  _wait stop we can’t_ , expecting a harsh voice to yell  _cut_ , or  _you’re in her light…_

… Anything that would ruin this miraculous, insane thing that’s happening — happening so damn fast — and she’s driving it as much as he is… her trembling hands sliding under his t-shirt, touching his chest, stomach, then brazenly down to cup his erection through his jeans… and he bucks at the sudden shock of it, has to tear his mouth away from hers with a sound he doesn’t recognize and clamp onto her overheated throat, drag her out of her chair to spread her onto the floor beneath him — but  _fuck_ … she’s resisting,  _fuck..._ she’s moving away — and he hears it now… hears why — the voices just outside the door… the knocking…

And he’s sitting up, panting, arms slack on his upraised knees as she goes to the door, opens it, says something inaudible… closes it again and stays there, far away from him…

She’s not looking at him, is focused on buttoning her blouse. He doesn’t remember undoing it… must have been too frantic. Did he touch her breasts and not even realize? He tries to gather his thoughts… breathe through his disappointment and frustration… think of something to say…

He feels it before he sees it — the cool poise that steals over her, straightens her spine… and, regal as a queen, she smooths down her clothing, walks over and offers him a hand up.

He takes it, considers pulling her to the floor again… but he stands, towering over her for the first time since her dressing room. Her hair has come loose, her face is flushed, lips swollen… so erotic, so ethereally beautiful. He longs to touch her pale throat, the ends of her soft hair, tuck her under his chin… but he’s too shaken, and the tone between them has shifted utterly. He simply drops into his chair... and she remains standing above him.

“Well, at least that’s out in the open now,” he says, with more than a little bitterness.

She laughs… a musical sound reminding him that, despite the interruption, despite the fact that he feels as vulnerable as he’s ever felt in his life… this was a fucking fantastic development.

“Mo needs the room,” she says.

“Oh, God,” he groans. “Figures.” He runs his hands through his hair, hauls in a deep breath and finds a way to laugh, too.

“And I need time,” she says, so serenely into the churning chaos of his body, mind and heart. “Is that okay?”

He nods… but as she starts to turn away, he takes her hand in his, holds it — so delicate and small — kisses her palm... until he finds his voice. “I think… I might be in a little bit of trouble here…,” he says.

She squeezes his hand before gently withdrawing hers. “I know,” she says. "Me too."

And then, like the sweetest of dreams, she’s gone.

 

**_To be continued…_ **


	4. Chapter 4

She hears male voices behind her as she moves away from the Green Room and down the hall — one is low, chuckling… the other is tense, rising. She knows them both, can guess the topic and rechecks her buttons, continues on… smiling and nodding, smiling and nodding at the people who greet her as she passes. She’s shattered, but reveals nothing… hides it, the way people-pleasers learn to do, presents a friendly façade, the way introverts learn to do…

She doesn’t consider going to her dressing room, can't face even the photos of her loved ones. She’s quaking inside, throbbing and wet. She would have had sex him right there on the floor if they hadn’t been interrupted… and she needs time to process that… to decide what happens next…

The wardrobe room is cavernous, a floor-to-ceiling warehouse of glorious colors and fabrics. There’s a spot in the back that she loves, where they store the old or unassigned evening gowns and costumes… and she makes her way there, smiling and nodding, smiling and nodding, exchanging vacant niceties, the pressure building to the point she’s sure she’ll scream… until she rounds the corner, hurries down the aisle and into the forest of tulle and silk at the end. She drops against the wall, sinks to the floor… and breathes.

##

He’s not a violent person, but there’s something about a knowing smirk, a snicker and an upraised eyebrow that — even if he’s in the wrong — makes him want to start throwing punches.

Instead, he'd said some snide words, stalked away, and now he's slamming his dressing room door behind him. He knows from experience that if he wants to quash rumors before they start, this isn’t the way to do it… but he’s seething with every emotion known to man.

He hurls himself into that purgatorial black swivel chair and spins until he’s dizzy, body a vibrating mass of sensations, mind a tornado of fevered images: her trembling smile, her wet eyes, white skin flushing pink, soft tongue gliding over his… and his cock leaps at the memory of her small hand cupping him through his jeans…

He jumps out of the chair and paces fast and hard, trying to avoid his reflection in the mirror... ignoring the boxes on the table that need unpacking. Things from home, things that will only shame him…

Because it’s more than physical this time.

_I might be in a little bit of trouble here…_

He crossed a line. More than a line — he scaled a huge fucking border wall. But she was right there with him, eager, passionate… honest...

_Me too…_

A wave of euphoria lifts him... 

_I need time…_

A blast of remorse flattens him.

He shoves his hands into his hair, squeezes his skull to silence his brain. He’s sweating, gut churning, blood on fire. He should meditate. He needs to meditate. If he has half a chance of getting through the scenes today — the reunion scene… the  _love_  scene, for God’s sake — he has to get it together, stuff down what he's feeling, lock it away… so he can  _pretend_  to feel those very same things for the camera...

He drops to the floor, crosses his legs, closes his eyes and tries to watch his turbulent breath…

_Come on peace. Come on equanimity. I don’t have all fucking day…_

 

**_To be continued..._ **


	5. Chapter 5

He’s much calmer when he hears the tap on his door. He draws and releases a final breath, rises from the floor in one strong, fluid motion, his mind clearer, emotions contained, body relaxed. When he opens the door, he’s stunned to see her there, and he instantly loses most — if not all — of his hard-earned composure.

“Hey,” she says, brightly.

He can’t speak, chest tight, mind racing with explanations for why she’s here — to pick up where they left off, to tell him she’s leaving her husband, to slap him with a harassment suit…

He wants to reach for her, pull her in, but stops himself… and simply opens the door wider for her. She glances past him, but stays where she is.

“I have a favor to ask,” she says, as perky and nonchalant as if she’d just popped round to say  _hi_ … as if they hadn’t nearly had sex on the Green Room floor half an hour ago, as if they hadn’t made vague declarations to each other…

“There’s this group of fans on Twitter… they call themselves Frizzies, for  _Franco_  and _Liz_ …,” she’s saying.

He’s disoriented, but nods, determined to keep up. “Right… sure. I know them… they’re sweet.”

“Great!” she beams. “Well, when they heard you were leaving last May, they sent some things and they asked for a selfie, but you’d already gone...,”

“A what?”

“A selfie… a picture you take of yourself…?”

“Oh… oh,  _right_ ,” he says, pivoting away from her sparkle and deeper into the relative calm of his dressing room.

“You know, you really might consider joining us here in the twenty-first century,” she says, taking a small step in after him. Her tone is teasing, indulgent, one reserved for best friends and pesky little brothers. He concludes three things then: That their relationship has reverted to that of co-workers… that what happened between them is not to be discussed… and that she’s much better at pretending than he is.

“So I’m told,” he sighs, forcing himself once again to let it all go — hopes, illusions, fantasies… but joining them now are visceral memories, aching desires… 

He clears his throat, stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rolls his shoulders…

_Let it go… let it go…_

“So, what did they send, our Frizzies?” he says, turning back to her, attitude deliberately lighter.

“Well… cookies for you. I took them home, and I  _swear_  I was going to forward them to you… but the kids found them, and—”

“—Wait, what? You ate my cookies?”

“My  _kids_  ate your cookies. I may have had  _one_ …,” she says, holding up a finger with a sheepish pout.

He laughs. “Well, I guess that means that you owe me… a  _treat_.”

He didn’t mean it suggestively, but it certainly ended up that way… his voice dipping low with implications. Her eyes widen, fly up to meet his. It’s as though the word signaled the end of the scene… and just like that, the two of them are their complicated selves again, pretenses gone, both brimming with tension in very heated air…

They look at each other, then away. “So, we should—,” they say in unison, shuffle and laugh nervously.

He notices the open door, crosses to it, closes it after checking the empty hallway... then he gestures to her. “You go first.”

She swallows, jaw tight. “It’s about… earlier. I wanted to see you before we taped.”

“I’m glad,” he says softly, taking a step toward her. She takes an equal step back.

“Just to…,” she trails off, shoulders rising, fingers lacing together…

“To figure out where things stand.”

She exhales a whoosh of stress. “Right. Yeah.”

"Right," he echoes, and watches, alert as hell, as her fingers begin wrestling one another, her poise gone, serenity shot. He can’t help but feel he’s finally seeing something raw and real beneath many delicate, carefully polished layers. She starts to speak, stops… starts again, stops, until he can’t take it. He moves another step toward her, freezes when he sees her flinch.

“Look,” he says, holding his hands up in a plea. “You came here… and I know this is awkward, but you gotta give me  _something_ …,”

She sighs, eyes on the floor. “I do. I know.” But she doesn't continue.

He imagines going to her, taking her face in his hands… but he blows out a blast of air instead, throws himself into the swivel chair and rubs his palms hard over his thighs. It’s not fair to dump all this on her, he knows… as though everything rests on her. He has just as many obligations as she has, just as many reasons to stop this in its tracks… but they can’t pretend there’s nothing between them, and they have decisions to make…

He realizes he’s jostling his knee, stops abruptly and sighs. “It’s simple… right?” he says gently. “It’s not easy, but it’s simple.”

She stands there waiting for him to go on, biting her lip, tied up in knots... yet flawless as a porcelain doll.

“You just… you have to tell me what you want, okay?” he says. “And we’ll go from there. Or not.”

And then there’s a moment of perfection, when her eyes find his, her body melts toward him, she parts her lips to speak… and everything is possible. But the moment ends when a shadow clouds her expressive features, and even before she speaks, he hears every fucking thing he needs to know.

“It’s not just about what  _I want_ ,” she says sadly. “I have to think about—,”

“—I know,” he breaks in, running a hand over his goatee, working hard to sound less gutted than he feels. “Don’t say it. I understand.”

“No… I’m not saying…,” she begins, draws a sharp breath. “Look…,” she starts toward him, slowly. “I came here to put everything behind us, but then I _saw_ you... and I just… I need time. We should both take time, and be  _sure_. I mean… I missed you. I really  _missed_  you. What if this is just a case of absence making the heart grow fonder? What if we… act rashly, but in a week or two it fades and—,”

“—And we’re right back to squabbling and getting on each other’s nerves… but we’ll have done this huge, huge thing with enormous consequences…,”

“Yeah. Something like that.” She hesitates, reaches out seemingly in spite of herself, her hand hovering for a moment, then dropping gently into his hair. “Except for the fact that we don’t squabble," she says softly. "And I never get on your nerves.”

He closes his eyes at her touch, has no choice but to breathe into it until he can find his voice…

“No, you don’t,” he says at last and takes her hand. “Just the opposite… you charm me. You delight me.” Surprisingly, she shows no signs of resisting, so he draws her down into his lap and risks looking deeply into her pained, shining, bottomless eyes… and at her lips, bitten and red…

“I hear you…,” he whispers, slipping his arms around her. “I do. But, God, I want to kiss you…,”

He feels a shiver run through her. Her eyes flutter closed, open again, fasten on his mouth… and when their lips touch with the gentlest pressure, he feels it, really  _feels_  it, in a way he hasn’t felt a kiss in years… and it’s so sweet, so intimate that everything else drops away. His heart rises and fills as he joins with her, and just as the kiss deepens… she ends it.

“Please… please,” she says breathlessly, pulling away, palm flat on his chest as though to steady herself. “I’m not ready for this. I’m not. I’m sorry…,” but she looks into his eyes… makes a helpless sound, presses her open mouth to his again… only to pull away sharply with an agonized cry. “I don’t know what to do,” she says like her heart is breaking. “I don’t know what to do…,”

He’s dizzy, so euphoric to know she still wants him that it takes a moment for the depth of her conflict to register… and then it’s wrenching to him. She’s usually centered, self-contained… and now she’s in distress. And it’s his fault. He’s forced daylight into a place that should have stayed dark, he should never have started any of this, for all their sake’s… but now it’s much too late.

He gently presses her head to his shoulder, wraps his arms around her… and notices with a pang how perfectly she fits. In so many scenes he’s held her just this way… but now it’s so real it hurts.

“We do nothing,” he says, running his fingers through her hair, letting himself feel the softness. “Not a thing. Not until we’re  _sure_ , like you said. We don’t engage… we don’t move forward… we wait and see. In the meantime, we channel it, we save it for the scene. We give it all to the camera. If this really is just about us missing each other, it’ll fade on its own. You’ll get so sick of my dumb jokes and manic energy and disgusting eating habits that you’ll march into Frank’s office and say,  _either he goes or I go_. How does that sound?”

She huffs a laugh, sighs heavily. “Okay. But what if it doesn’t fade?” She looks up at him then, openly and with so much trust it takes his breath away. He thought he’d lost that trust, deserved to lose it… and this is a gift he doesn’t dare mishandle...

“We’ll deal with that, if and when,” he says, sounding far more in control and decisive than he feels.

“But... what if…,” her voice betrays a note of apprehension, but she continues. “What if it only fades for one of us?”

That catches him off guard. He looks into her face, so natural and fresh… she fills and burns his field of vision, like gazing at the sun. He feels her in his arms, in his heart… and he almost laughs at the absurd, alarming notion that this could ever fade for him. In a move that utterly trashes his own words of wisdom, he kisses her… softly, reverently, tasting her as he slowly draws back…

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. “Can I say that to you? I have to say that to you just once, as myself.”

Her blush is glorious. She bites her lip, holds his gaze for so long he’s sure things are about to take a turn… but she lowers her eyes almost shyly, and strokes his cheek with her fingertips. “So are you,” she whispers back. “And I say that as myself.”

“Nah,” he grunts, moved beyond words... but he needs to break this mood. “So, to re-cap: No more of this stuff." He gestures around and between them. "Not until we know what's going on. Anything we can't lock down, we give to the camera. Deal?”

“Deal... if you think we can really do that, given recent... developments...,” she trails off.

“Hey," he says, as bright and chipper as she was when she first came in... and just as false. "There's nothing in that script we haven’t done before. Besides, what’s the alternative? You want to quit? Or be paired with somebody else?”

“I’d  _rather_  quit than that,” she laughs, pauses, caresses his cheek one last time… then she sighs. “I do have to go, though. Hair and make-up time.”

“Don’t let them change you too much,” he says.

“Gotta be camera-ready!” She starts to climb from his lap, but he pulls her back against him... 

“Not so fast,” he says softly, and hugs her close. “Don't we have a selfie to take...?”

 

**_To be continued…_ **


	6. Chapter 6

_Exterior: Kelly’s Diner._

Take Three.

It shouldn’t be so hard to find the character. He’s out of practice, that’s all, and she’s standing so close… too close, in fact. And who stands face-to-face in conversations in real life, anyway? It’s unnatural, and her eyes are sparkling and he can still feel her in his lap and what the hell is his line…

“…  _or you didn’t notice_ …,” she prompts, whispering without moving her lips… always knowing everyone’s lines better than they do…

But it’s no use. He holds up a hand, takes a step back to regroup. It’s the dialog, that’s what it is. He’d been so busy feeling awkward about their upcoming kisses that he’s barely paid attention to the dialog… and now it’s so on point, so  _exactly_  the situation they’ve found themselves in that they’re basically pouring out their hearts in front of the world…

_Did you miss me? It’s hard for you, right… to say how truly, deeply and madly you longed for me? Either that, or you didn’t notice I was gone…_

_I know I should say something jokey or snarky right now, but I am incapable of banter… because I am just so happy…_

And word must have gotten around about her semi-unclad state in the Green Room, because there’s a much bigger crowd than usual for a Tuesday afternoon… and when he tried to politely chase them away with something about his sophomore jitters, they made a show of nodding sympathetically and drifting away… but they drifted right back again and are watching now, whispering… or that’s how it seems to him…

His mouth is dry. He gestures for water, someone tosses him a bottle that he cracks open too aggressively, spilling most of it. He chugs the rest while the puddle is being cleaned up, and tries nonchalantly to wrangle his rebellious nerves… and then she’s next to him, tugging his arm, pulling him aside. She gives him a wide-eyed,  _what-the-fuck_  look…

“Lockdown thing’s not working,” he mutters through clenched teeth.

“Okay then, Plan B,” she whispers. And as she turns away she throws over her shoulder, “And if all else fails, make me laugh.”

Plan B it is. Give it to the camera. Good idea.

He blows out a breath, crushes and tosses aside the empty bottle, steps back to his mark.

“We good?” the director says.

They both nod.

“Action.” 

#

He’s gesturing with impossibly large and graceful hands, and a wisp of hair is fluttering over his forehead… 

“… either that, or you didn’t notice I was gone…,” he’s saying.

And because she’s been doing this forever, because she’s learned how to exist as two people at once, in two places at once… she’s able to say her next line with the appropriate amount of emotion, while at the same time watching his hands and his fluttering hair... and thinking of the portrait-painting scene in Franco's studio months ago…

His hair had been pulled back then, loose strands surrounding his face, “You’re beautiful,” he'd said in a voice not quite Franco’s, and he'd kissed her tenderly, hands releasing her with the same reluctance she’d felt in the hallway earlier...

And later that day, when she'd no longer been _Elizabeth_ , she'd allowed herself to reflect on that scene… to be stirred by the memory of his eyes on her from behind the easel... to love the way their intimate connection had flared, tightening her chest, as everything around them fell away…

That scene had fueled her fantasies for weeks afterward — the erotic intensity of his light eyes… his words... the idea of posing for him… and how very naked she'd felt. More naked than when she'd stood in front of him and dropped the sheet — barely clothed — and he'd so gallantly wrapped her in his arms, sneering at the sound guy who got too close, protecting her from all eyes but his…

“I don’t care where you get your appetite,” her husband had gasped, satiated after the fourth or fifth go-around that week. “As long as you come home to eat.”

Maybe he really hadn’t cared that she'd been imagining another man — and larger, more graceful hands on her body… longer hair brushing her skin… fuller lips on her mouth — but most of all, imagining hazel eyes that see everything, that sparkle with admiration, humor, vulnerability…

Yes, she's such a professional that she can recall all this, yet still be present outside Kelly's Diner, watching a wisp of hair fluttering over his forehead, completing her line of dialog…

“…because I’m just so _happy_.”

His face softens… and as he approaches her for the kiss, she sees that he’s strobing out of character again. But even a genuine kiss won’t affect her, because she’s locked it all down, and herself with it. She’s _Elizabeth_ — with Elizabeth’s words, hair, makeup, outfit — and Elizabeth she’ll remain… even as he takes her face gently between his hands…

Because later, when she’s no longer Elizabeth, she’ll let herself feel every last bit of this...

#

_Give it to the camera…_

It’s his only option. Lockdown is a fail, so is pretending, and it’s making him not only crazy, but  _bad_. So he has to ignore it all — the crowd, the crew, the equipment — and let himself _feel_ in a way he’s never allowed before, let her penetrate  the shell to the  _real_  him, and sink all the way in. And she's so completely in character, so emotionally distant that she’s giving him the cover he needs to make this work…

He has to laugh at all his blustery advice about their situation, and the arrogance of assuming  _he’d_  be the hero. Yet he knows intuitively that someday soon he’ll do the same for her — step up to provide shelter when things get too real.

He gently cradles her face, feels her lean in…

_I like the way you touch me…_

And he pauses to breathe her breath, to bask in the hum of energy just before their lips meet. He lets himself taste her, secure in the knowledge that she’s elsewhere…

It’s a deeply emotional kiss he gives her, the first of his career, and it rocks him to his core. He takes her hand, turns…

“Yeah, you know what… let’s forget about the brownies. Let’s get out of here…,” he says in his bedroom voice, the one he never allows on camera because it’s  _him_ … 

_... and yes, let’s get out of here, NOW… let’s get a hotel room, let’s undress each other, and—_

—But she pulls him back into the scene with a firm squeeze of his hand. It’s _Elizabeth_ looking up at him, keeping him anchored as he gets through his next lines… Elizabeth’s hand taming his wild lock of hair, then flowing down his neck to his chest, to his heart _…_  and then away much too quickly…

He’s losing it again, gut twisting, breathing harsh. There's no way he won't break when says the line about putting her to bed, giving her TLC, because he can see it all, feel it all, wants her in his bed so badly... but that can't happen…

_And if all else fails, make me laugh…_

Her words ring in his mind… and yes…  _yes_. He’ll have to be content with that… with being silly and outrageous, with palming her face and eliciting a genuine, helpless laugh from her… to be satisfied with that simple pleasure…

Because there’s a love scene coming up, and he needs all the help he can get.

 

**_To be continued…_ **

 

* * *

Many thanks to SoapTweetsGH for the scene referenced in this chapter:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qa73DD6O35I&;list=PLJ9t04WS7WgtELrxM1oMeHZu4rfaDkA6s&;index=32&;t=1s

* * *

 


	7. Chapter 7

_Interior: Elizabeth’s Bedroom._

His emotional kiss caught up with her much sooner than she'd anticipated. It didn’t wait for her to shed her  _Elizabeth_  skin, for her to go home, deal with her family's needs, then settle down alone with a glass of wine and a dreamy smile. No, it was fierce, insistent and it charged beneath the façade of hair, makeup, wardrobe and sank itself deep… a slow wave of electricity that stayed, heated, hummed... stimulating her through the scene on the Kelly’s set, the scene on the hospital set… rising in pitch and intensity whenever he came near...

...and here, now in the bedroom…

It's only a set in a studio. But there are candles and pillows. There’s the bed. And there's the man. He'd asked that the set be cleared of non-essentials… to protect her privacy. But it’s more than that — they discussed it.

They need freedom.

#

_20 minutes earlier:_

 

“You’re lacking your customary poise, Nurse Webber.”

His voice comes from behind her, light, soft… lips so close they might as well be grazing her ear. Blood surges in her veins, but she doesn’t turn to him.

“Is it too late to call in sick?” she says tightly, eyeing the bed with barely disguised panic. “A family emergency maybe?”

“How about an apocalypse. Just a little one. Only temporary,” he says, and the humor in his voice, though a bit forced, makes her smile… despite the tiny internal earthquakes she’s sure he can see.

“This is ridiculous,” she says, inhaling sharply, straightening her spine.

“Totally ridiculous.”

“We’re professionals!”

“Consummate professionals. Combined forty-plus years between us,” he says… and quickly gasps a horrified, “Really? _Fuck!_ ”

She laughs out loud. “True! So we should know better. We should  _do_  better!”

“Right you are.” He clears his throat dramatically. “Umm… how?”

She finally turns to him, notices people on the periphery, and with studied nonchalance she draws him away by his elbow.

“We’re agreed that finding the right… tone… is harder than we'd anticipated?” she says.

His façade of levity fades, and guilt and frustration cloud his face. “I know, I’m sorry. I can’t seem to get a handle—,”

“—It’s not just you,” she says, then again… softly, refusing to lay this predicament at his feet, even though he shouldn’t have kissed her with so much tenderness and longing… with something much, much too close to genuine love. No, it's her fault for not remaining _Elizabeth_  — safe and detached until a time and place of her own choosing, when she could unpack her emotions and responses by degrees, examine them, reframe them, diminish them until they could do no real harm…

Because what choice does she have?

“You’re angry,” he says, and only then does she realize she’s crossed her arms and withdrawn from him, that her jaw is clenched…

“At myself,” she says. “For being so…  _affected_.”

He shifts his weight, pulls a deep breath and sounds more than a little miffed at her tone. “If you were  _affected_ , you hid it well.”

“I was doing my  _job_.” It comes out as a snap... but she doesn't backpedal. She’s fully aware of her sudden coldness, of her creeping bitterness at this situation… at  _him_ …

“Riiiight,” he says. “This is you being angry at _yourself_ …,”

She looks up at him… and is stunned to see hurt and anger flashing in those usually warm hazel eyes…

“Look, I didn’t ask for this anymore than you did,” he says under his breath, in a harsh tone that crushes her heart, makes her reach out and touch his arm.

“Shhh,” she whispers, all coldness gone… and a fervent desire suddenly crystallizes inside her — to lead him away from the hollowness and concentrated chaos of this place, to a sanctuary of shared laughter and affection, of deep connection, silent understanding… a place they reach so easily together. But this time they could go further… away from vows and obligations and into murmurs and sighs, tenderness and passion, joined bodies rocking… ultimately disappearing altogether…

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry,” he’s saying with heat, his fingers rising toward her cheek but dropping away before contact.

Her voice breaks over small sob. “I don’t think I can do this.” 

“Stop… stop, it’s just a job, like you said," he says, rushing to repair, console. "We’ll get in there, we’ll do the scene, we’ll get out, and—,”

“No… I can’t, I can't. It's not that simple. I thought I could hide… I did hide for awhile, but that kiss... it’s too real now,” she says. "I don't know if I can pretend anymore..."

She raises her eyes and meets his — so ardent and intense — eyes that could jeopardize everything… eyes that  _know_  her, that pause now, searching...

“So don't pretend,” he says softly.

She flinches, mouth going dry.

"Forget about locking it down. Forget about giving it to the camera." His voice drops into a range that makes her bones dissolve. "Be with me."

She feels like the floor has vanished, and only his eyes are keeping her from falling...

"But... but the people," she stammers, amazed that she's not rejecting the idea outright. "The crew... I mean, to be so  _raw_...,"

"Think of it as just us. Do what you're doing now — keep looking into my eyes. Trust me… that’s all you have to do. I'll protect you.”

Without thinking, without first checking the set for unwelcome observers, she lifts her hand to his chest, presses her palm over his heart as she has a hundred times before... but this time it's an affirmation as clear as any words.

He covers her hand with his, dips his face, surprises her with a gentle, public kiss on her cheek, and whispers...

“Now… tell me what you need.”

 

_**To be continued...** _


	8. Chapter 8

_Interior: Elizabeth’s Bedroom._

The set is closed, as he demanded. He chased off a few stragglers himself with a bit more force than necessary, because she said she needed privacy, needed to feel free... and he promised to make it safe for her…

And they agreed — this will be physical, nothing more. A kind of purging. 

_And then we're done,_ she said, eyes downcast, lips trembling. _Right?_

Right.

But now he’s the nervous one...

 

_Action._

She glides around the bedroom, lowering blinds, lighting candles, closing the door, delivering lines in character, yet he responds as himself… because all he can think is how luxuriant her dark hair looks cascading down her back, how he wants to test the weight of it in his hands, that he’ll be kissing her soon, touching her body…

For real.

And yet... they have to pretend it’s _not_ real… but act like it is. Sell it, be convincing… yet not so convincing that loved ones and co-workers will get suspicious, or have their existing suspicions confirmed. 

And yet… this may be their only chance to get this powerful, unruly _thing_ out of their systems in a safe, controlled way… 

And yet... they can’t go too far. It's just physical, right? But if they go too far, he may feel too much... and might not come back from that.

_ Be with me... _

He wishes he hadn't said that. It was too erotic... too sincere. And he’s wildly self-conscious now, like a day-player, a rookie. This is supposed to be a joy, the time and place he feels most free — but he’s tangled up, trapped in a hall of mirrors, and he isn’t quite sure if he himself is real, or merely a reflection — an actor living a part he’s pretending to play… a reflection of a reflection…

But _she’s_ real, and grounds him as she calmly passes him, removes her shoes and kneels on the bed. She’s so deeply luminous, clear and kind… she’s someone he trusts to reflect back to him his best self, and he hopes he does the same for her…

But when he kneels on the bed opposite her, leans in close as he's settling, her eyes dip to his mouth with a heat and instant surrender that shakes him. They hadn’t blocked or rehearsed a kiss here, but she’s clearly open to one in a way she wouldn’t have been last spring. More than open… her pupils are dilated — the signal of genuine arousal, a cue to him in the past that he needed to downshift, that things were getting real for his partner… 

He knows that no one else will see it, but she’s broken character, for the first time in his memory. It’s started… and it hurts him. She didn’t want this, even though she agreed to it. She didn’t want to want him… but she does. She _does_ , and the visible evidence fills him with euphoria, lifts him high… then plunges him deep into his body, into the first powerful stirrings of _want_ in his gut… 

He needs a beat to get his bearings, could call _cut_ — but she could, too… either of them could, at any time — but he doesn’t. Because it’s _good_  and right to be near her, to breathe her sweet scent… and in moments they're able to stabilize each other, to find their characters and speak their loving words... trusting, responding to one another with depth and subtlety... moving into a rhythm so familiar, so similar to making love that electric heat sparks and builds between them… slips out and around until it envelops them, and everything and everyone else fades away… 

_Just look into my eyes…_

And he knows now that it won't just be physical, couldn't be... that he will go too far, feel too much… 

And he won't come back.

 

**_To be continued…_ **


	9. Chapter 9

_Interior: Elizabeth’s Bedroom._

She hadn’t realized how submerged she’s been until his eyes bring her to the surface. Honest and intense, they draw her up through years of accumulated rules, prohibitions and  _inhibitions_ … they urge her to leave them all behind and emerge into fresh, clean air… where he’s waiting…

She can touch him here, she can kiss him, she can _feel_ … 

And she can forgive herself, because it’s in the script… right there in black and white. A confident, assertive Liz who takes charge… merciful permission to express this overwhelming physical desire, to _enjoy_ it, without guilt. She doesn’t need to stay apart, or pretend, and she doesn’t know why she didn’t see that before or what she’s been hiding from…

And he’s standing before her, tall, beautiful and available to her in this moment, fingertips sensuous on her skin, lips so soft and tender… and she’s giddy with excitement, set free, like a kid in a toy store who’s been told she can play with anything she wants, as long as she doesn’t break it or remove it from the premises… and she throws herself into the role with a reckless enthusiasm she’s never allowed herself before.

His eyes tell her he’s right there with her… and she notices, but chooses to dismiss as a trick of candlelight, the spark of fear she sees in them, and a gentle warning… like he knows something she doesn’t…

#

He thought this would be harder… to slough away decades of self-protection. For all his perceived openness, for all the emotional truth he tries to portray for the camera, he’s always found a way to conceal his essential self… until she came into his life. And now he’s never felt so defenseless and exposed. 

Standing before her, looking down into her radiant, bottomless eyes, he knows what he'd been searching for on those long, lonely walks through the streets of Manhattan, understands now the powerful yearning to get on the first plane back to LA, why he'd felt so strange and out of place in his own city. He'd needed to go home… and somehow, without his knowledge or permission… she’s become that for him. 

His home. 

His heart aches as he touches her. He knows she doesn’t share his feelings to this degree, that maybe missing him has made her think she feels more than she does… but ultimately, this is a physical thing for her. So he holds back, gives her too much, but not as much as he could. He could fall to his knees, he could drown in her eyes… but he stays upright, kisses her with genuine, but tightly-reined emotion, lets his body respond to her nearness, her taste, the beautiful swell of her breasts as he removes her blouse, the whisper touch of her tongue on his lips… 

And gradually he’s able to sink into the purely physical with her, fully inhabit it, grow aroused by her small hand on his chest, pushing him down on the bed, by the sexy, challenging smile she gives him as she unclasps her bra. He’s enjoying this side of her — aggressively playful, sexually assured… 

She’s astride him now but not touching, and he slides his hands up her denim-clad thighs with a slight downward force, just to see what she’ll do… and without hesitation, she lowers herself onto his pelvis, and his cock stirs under the pressure and heat of her…

“Cut!”

It’s a shockingly abrupt call from the director, but not unexpected. It’s time for a wardrobe change… or in this case, a wardrobe shedding. Ordinarily there would be people fluttering about, touching up hair and makeup, handing them garments, adjusting the set… but because it’s a skeleton crew, they each simply climb off the bed, slip out of their jeans and anything else the scene doesn’t call for...

Vaguely modest in his black boxer-briefs, he tugs off his socks, pulls back the sheets, arranges the pillows himself and lays down on the bed… and she stands off to the side in her flesh-colored panties, clutching her black lace bra to her chest. Her eyes are downcast, cheeks flushed as she climbs up beside him again, self-consciousness radiating from her like solar flares. He’s stunned by the change in her, and it takes a strenuous act of will for him not to shield her with his body and order everyone to _get the fuck away_ from her…

Instead, he gently brushes her soft hair back over her shoulder and whispers, “You okay?”

She nods, swallows and gives him a little self-deprecating laugh. “Ever been awakened from a sweet dream by a screeching alarm clock?”

He laughs, too, though he’s rocked to his core by the term _sweet_ _dream_ … and would take time to dwell and savor, but the director is calling _action_ …

#

They kiss, they touch… but it’s unnatural now… awkward. It’s her fault, she knows — she’s shaken, resentful that the director intruded on the world the two of them had been creating. A world of intimacy and trust where she’d felt safe… so safe that something she’d kept locked away, something terrifying and true, had begun to reveal itself… 

But when she was shocked back to reality, it fled and buried itself deep again… where it belongs. She should be grateful… but she doesn’t know how to continue the scene, can’t seem to find her way, even superficially, to where she’d been before… and after several failed takes, she thinks maybe she should give up and just be _Elizabeth_ …

But he’s taking charge and rising up beneath her, so strong and sure, slipping a large hand under her hair and cradling her neck… and he kisses her, forcefully, passionately, driving everything from her mind as he slowly pulls her down on top of his warm, beautiful body, silently saying… 

_Be with me…_

The memory of his words thrills her again, stirs her as deeply as they had when he’d first uttered them…

_Be with me…_

There’s no mistaking that it’s _him_ now, not his character or a façade. He’s been a bit restrained with her up to this point, but no longer. She knows he saw her confusion and distress and he’s rescuing her, like he always does, with a fierce caring that wakes her up, makes her feel like a blurry photo that’s just snapped into vivid focus… reminding her that, just this once, she’s _allowed_ to want him and to act on that wanting, openly, without reservations…

So this time when she straddles him, she doesn’t need his hands on her thighs urging her to make contact… she does that on her own, sinking down until she feels his growing erection between her legs… and she remembers cupping him through his jeans in the Green Room — can’t believe she did that then, can’t believe what she’s doing now… pressing down on him through the thin layers of fabric that separate them… 

Their eyes lock, hot and black... she lays herself down, and chest to chest, they kiss and caress as naturally as breathing… while beneath the sheet, their bodies rock and grind against one another, just subtly enough to keep their secret…

It’s a joyful, erotic conspiracy… and the thing she’s kept locked away is freeing itself, flooding her with euphoric relief, and she can’t help but laugh as he expertly rolls her onto her back, and himself on top of her, and it doesn’t matter anymore what’s in the script, what they rehearsed… nothing matters but taking pleasure in each other, in their intuitive connection, their effortless trust…

Still, there are beats to play, marks to hit…

#

He makes sure the sheet is wrapped securely around his waist, revealing nothing of his straining erection as he climbs to his knees above her. His heart is racing, sweat rising on his skin…

_He’s just gone down on her…_

He knows she’s thinking it, too — the moment in the Green Room that started it all — and he’s fucking _outraged_ that they’re in a prop bed on an LA soundstage instead of in a real bed anywhere else in the world, outraged that he has to _pretend_ her cries of orgasm are echoing in his ears and her taste is hot in his mouth… but it is what it is, and nothing matters now but her eyes, watching him with a hungry intensity as he slowly moves his hand up her thigh. He’s reveling in the satin smoothness of her skin… and when he reaches the edge of the sheet, he sees the permission in her eyes, the _don’t you dare stop_ that he’s looking for… so he keeps going, slides his hand under the sheet as she angles her hips for him, and his thumb brushes her through very thin, very wet silk. He feels her tiny convulsion against his hand, but above the sheet, she’s as still and composed as a statue… 

He’s managing to suppress the most dangerous of his desires, but his body is hot and vibrating, he’s half-crazed to finally be touching her, and when he presses his hand into her contours, she whimpers — a soft, sweet breath of sound he’s sure only he can hear… 

And his heart responds as he lays his body down on hers, feels her instantly yield and mold herself to him… and it’s the genuine emotion in her eyes, the tenderness in her touch when she sweeps back his lock of unruly hair, the passion when she receives his kiss, that lets him imagine this is real, that she’s his… and he reaches down, possessively grasps her ankle, so small in his hand, and gently pulls her leg up and over his hip as he rocks into the heat between her legs, feels her thighs squeeze him, her fingers press into his back, her moan as her soft tongue moves in his mouth…

“Okay, okay cut,” the director calls, gruff and a bit breathless. “That’s enough, guys. Yeah, that’s good, we got it ”

He’s so lost in her that the words circle but don’t land at first… and when they do, he feels gut-shot, and pretends that she didn’t hear them, or the smattering of disappointed grumbles from the sparse crew… 

She remains beneath him, clinging to him, and it’s unthinkable to part from her now, when they’re so in tune, so close, so nearly one… but reality is intruding — equipment clacking and screeching, voices muttering nonsense, the flurry of movement all around. On another day they would sit up, check in with each other… but today they lay together motionless, skin warm with shared perspiration… trying to return to themselves and reveal nothing to the rest of the world… 

She wants this to last as long as possible, and closes her eyes to better memorize the feel of him on top of her, his hard, heavy weight between her legs, the taste of him in her mouth. But she has to defuse this unbearable frustration, or she’ll find a way to continue this, and she may never be able to stop. So she unwinds her limbs, sinks back into the mattress and lets him go…

Grief stabs him as he looks into her face… flushed, but so detached now, so closed off. It’s over. It’s fucking over. They got through the scene, and there are no more reasons to touch her, no more excuses for intimacy.  He swallows down a curse, wants to say something loving and reassuring, but can’t find words… so he focuses on the practical. “I need a few minutes,” he whispers, more harshly than he means to. “Can you cover…”

She nods, not meeting his eyes. He tightens the sheet around his waist and his body screams in protest as he lifts away from her. She slides out from under him, bra clasped to her chest, discreetly slips her arms through the straps, grabs the robe handed to her and wraps it around herself…

When she gets up and moves away from him, he notices that her hair is tousled and she’s shaky on her feet. He feels her wet heat on his fingers, growls inside, sees himself reach out, grab her, drag her back into bed — but he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

Instead, he drops back, throws an arm over his eyes and hears her clear her throat and begin to ask some lame technical question that gets lost amidst the roaring in his head, the ache in his chest, the unfulfilled demands of his body. She’s doing it to draw attention away from him, and as he wills his erection to fade, he distantly reflects on what they just did, how it must have looked to outside observers… and he decides he’ll have to rely on his buddies in the editing suite to make it all go away.

Just like it never happened.

When he sighs and looks around for her again… she’s gone.

**_To be continued…_ **


	10. Chapter 10

When she gets to her dressing room, she doesn’t even change out of her robe before she starts to clean. There’s a crew for that, and the place is spotless, but to her eyes, things are in terrible disarray. So she straightens, dusts, fluffs the pillows on the white leather couch, channeling the energy flowing hot inside her, keeping her mind laser-focused on the tasks at hand… 

Images and sensations arise, but she bats them away as gently and effortlessly as helium balloons. She’s aware that she’s wet and fluttery _down there_ , but it will pass, just like these emotions that seem so real… but aren’t. She missed him, she tells herself... that’s all. He’s only been back for a day, it’s been relentlessly intense between them since that first hug in the hallway this morning, and she let herself get carried away...

Like happened once before, after the Tom Baker storyline wrapped. They’d been taping separately for weeks, never crossed paths... and when they were finally together and rehearsing their first love scene, she’d kissed him. A genuine, heartfelt kiss that she instantly regretted, that meant nothing… and she’s eternally grateful that he ignored the whole damn incident.

But it happened because she missed him. And this is happening because she missed him. Whatever she’s feeling will fade like it faded last time, so it’s better to ignore it again until things return to normal. He’d said as much earlier:

_We don’t engage… we don’t move forward… we wait and see…_

If only they’d stuck to _that_ plan.

She notices that her body is tingling, mouth dry. She reaches for her thermos of tea on the counter beneath the wall length mirror and catches sight of herself. She’s been avoiding her reflection, vaguely afraid it would reveal something she didn’t want to see… but it’s just her, in the same ratty terrycloth bathrobe she’s had forever. People keep giving her new ones, gently suggesting she chuck this one in the trash and set it on fire, but she likes it — it keeps her grounded in this place of super-sized egos and explosive drama. It reminds her who she is.

She freezes at the sound of voices in the hall—

One, two… three voices. All female. She collapses a bit, not sure whether she’s more relieved or disappointed, and scolds herself.

He won’t come. Of course he won’t. There’s no reason to. They got through the scene… and that was the point. It’s over. It’s done. And now they’ll keep their distance until this thing resolves itself.

But if he does want to find her… for whatever reason… this is the first place he’ll look. The notion floods her with adrenaline — she imagines grabbing her purse and fleeing across the parking lot in her tiny underwear and pink slippers, unhooked bra flapping, ratty bathrobe billowing out behind her…

And no sooner is she done smiling at that melodramatic image then another takes its place:

She's reclining on the couch, not in her old robe, but something black and sleek and silky, subtly open to reveal her matching black lace bra and panties… and he’s bursting in through the door, lost in a sexual frenzy, his eyes dark and wild as he sees her, grabs her, tears off her clothes… has his way with her…

She laughs out loud at her soapy brain. She’s been in Daytime way too long…

But still, she listens for his voice, no longer able to ignore the arousal in her body. And as she pours herself a mug of lukewarm tea, it’s one of those rare occasions she wishes she had something much, much stronger…

#

He wouldn’t characterize what he’s doing as stalking, exactly. Maybe it had been earlier, after he’d left the set, still deeply aroused, his undeniably predatory intent pounding like a drumbeat throughout his body…

… _find her, fuck her, find her, fuck her…_

But in the minutes since, his mind has come back online, the overwhelming need has eased, he’s been able to cool off… and now… _what now_ …?

Well, he’s just stretching his legs, getting reacquainted with the nooks and crannies of the building… particularly in the dressing room area. He hasn’t seen her leave… though, as connected as they’ve been, it’s entirely possible she felt him coming and ducked out the back… 

He stops in his tracks, blows out a blast of air. This day has gone on for fucking _ever_. He should just go back to the hotel, grab a beer in the bar, watch some ballgame he doesn’t give a shit about, distract himself from _her_ …

Stupid. Stupid to have taken it this far, pretending he could keep crossing lines with no consequences. He hates clichés, but they’re parading through his mind now — about closing the barn door after the horse has bolted, trying to stuff genies back into bottles, crying over gallons of spilled milk…

Milk. Milky skin…

He strokes his palm over his goatee, reactivating her scent. Generally, he showers after a love scene, but he hasn’t so much as washed his hands. He’s covered with her, tastes her in his mouth… and he’s not quite ready to give that up...

And it anchors him, drags him firmly back to reality, and there, standing alone in the hallway, he’s fully himself again… surveying the damage now that the storm has passed. And he’s left with a feeling of profound regret.

He went too far. He knew he would, but hoped that foreknowledge would act as a brake somehow, keep him from hurling himself right over the cliff. But it’s not himself he’s worried about — he's afraid he took her with him. Against her will. He remembers pressing down on her thighs, the blinding pleasure of grinding into the heat between her legs, the feel of her small, frail ankle in his hand… and maybe she resisted, gave him signs he should have picked up on but dismissed because of how badly he _wanted_ …

After all, she wrapped herself up in that old robe and ran away the second she had the chance. No backward glance, no customary sweet wave, no ironic comment…

He drags a hand through his hair as he tries to reconcile conflicting impressions…

Because she had seemed to be right there with him for so much of the scene… not emotionally of course, but _physically_ … even taking the lead at times. But that’s what the script called for, and she’s been better able to stay in character today than he has. She’s also far better at pretending… and maybe she just did what she had to do to get the shot and put an end to this agony. Or she might be thinking he took advantage of the situation — she'd confided that a few of her scene partners had done that in the past, and what if he's just another one…?

Or — and maybe worse — she might not be giving him a second thought…

He deliberately slows the chaotic progress of his thoughts, breathes to loosen his tense muscles… and when he looks up, he realizes with a flash of anxiety that he’s standing outside her dressing room door. No, he can’t see her in this state, he has no right to dump all this crap at her feet. He needs to give her space. She knows where to find him if she wants to talk, or by some miracle continue what they started… or pretend it never happened… or press charges…

He starts to turn away when he sees Pam, his red-haired friend from wardrobe, headed straight toward him at a quick pace. When she’s within earshot, she whispers urgently,

“You should know what they’re saying about you two…” 

**_To be continued…_ **


	11. Chapter 11

She’s stalling, sipping at her now-cold tea, looking around for something else to clean. She should be showering, getting changed, gathering her things, heading home to her real life… to her _family…_

But they have another long day of taping tomorrow, another kiss… and maybe they should clear the air first…

She’s vaguely wondering:  _What would Elizabeth do_ … when she hears his muffled voice outside the door. Her heart leaps, and before she can stop herself, she’s across the room, hand on the doorknob, opening the door… and she finds him standing in the hallway facing her, talking to Pam from wardrobe, whose back is to her. His eyes instantly snap to hers over the tumble of red hair, and narrow — it’s an intense look she intuitively takes as a warning, and quietly closes the door again, leans close to listen. She can’t quite make out words, but his tone is clipped… and soon their voices recede down the hall and fade away… 

She realizes she’s stopped breathing, that she’s clutching the lapels of her robe so tightly her fingers are cramping. They’ve been found out — she’s sure of it… 

_Jesus, please, not this again_ … 

A hot brew of outrage, dread and shame erupts inside her, tightens her chest, makes her sag against the door… but she quickly manages to push it away, bury it deep, right herself and give her busy brain a serious scolding: 

Found out doing _what_? They hugged that morning, but he hugs everybody. Her buttons were undone when she opened the Green Room door, and maybe her face was a little flushed, but they’d been rehearsing a love scene — easily explained. Then they’d taped the scene, surrounded by crew… and maybe they’d been more _enthusiastic_ than usual, but big deal — other couples have been far worse, and besides… it’s _over_ now… 

She shoves off from the door, briskly unties the belt of her robe and heads to the closet. She’s probably completely mistaken, anyway. His conversation with Pam probably had nothing to do with her, and the only reason she'd assuming the worst is because she’s feeling guilty… and because of the maddening, continuous buzz in her body… and because of the innocent eyes watching her from those silver filigree picture frames on the table… 

What she really needs to do is get the hell out of here and do something _normal_ , like chauffeur her kids to the mall… 

#

He’s reeling, leans against the wall for support as Pam moves away down the hall, throwing a sympathetic glance at him over her shoulder.

 _A full-blown affair that started months ago_. That’s the gist of the rumor, though there are several versions. One says he initiated it, got obsessive, she ended it and demanded he leave the show. Another says  _she_ initiated it, _he_ ended it and left the show to repair his marriage, but they’ve secretly kept in touch all this time, she begged him to come back, and now they’ve picked up where they left off…

So many self-proclaimed witnesses, so many intimate details, so much hideous, damaging gossip…

He hates this shit, _so fucking much_. To be treated like toys for colleagues to bat around with their sharp claws, instead of like vulnerable human beings with families and livelihoods and reputations…

The last time it happened, he'd been able to laugh it off, make noncommittal jokes until another shiny object came along and diverted attention away from him… but he hadn’t cared then, hadn’t been invested. This time he’s invested, for _her_ sake. Probably too much. Rage is coursing through him and he squeezes his eyes shut, pulls a deep breath to try and quell it, but it’s too fresh. He needs to tell her before she hears it from someone else… so she can be prepared… 

He straightens up, turns and strides purposefully back toward her door, but finds himself slowing, pausing… and coming to a stop as doubts tug at him.

It’s just gossip — particularly nasty gossip — but if they come out swinging, shouting denials, they’ll only make it worse. They need to ignore it, let it run its course. He knows he's taking this harder than he should because there’s a grain of truth to it… and he feels intensely protective of her. So why upset her? There’s nothing to be done tonight, anyway. He’ll sleep on it, see how the situation looks in the morning. And Pam, while being a sweetheart, does tend to exaggerate…

He looks up, and there’s her door again — a simple nondescript slab of wood, like every other one. But behind it is something he wants intensely... and can’t _let_ himself want. The joyous agony of the conflict threatens to drive him to his knees. He’s beyond grateful that he just talked himself out of his only valid excuse for seeing her tonight and resolves to walk away… but the memory of her face materializes before him...

She’d opened the door when she’d heard his voice only minutes ago — still dresses in her robe, her expression soft, welcoming… eager…

His heart catches. Given the swirl of rumors polluting this place, the very last thing he should do is approach that door… enter that room. He needs to stay away. Far away...

And yet...

**_To be continued…_ **


	12. Chapter 12

And yet…

He scans the empty hallway and reaches for the doorknob, even as everything in him screams to leave her alone, let it all go…

Because of the way she'd peeked out, he assumes she’s expecting him, so he knocks once as a courtesy, calls, “Decent?” as he opens the door... and  hears a sudden, high-pitched, “Eep!” 

He glances toward the sound just in time to see her clasp her arms over her bare chest and whirl away from him.

Clearly, she was not expecting him.

He slams his eyes shut. “Jesus… I—I’m… I thought,” he stammers, starts to back out…

“No, no, wait… it’s okay,” she squeaks, and he hears a flurry of activity, grunts, fabric shifting, a muttered curse as soft flesh bumps something hard. 

“Decent,” she says breathlessly. He cracks open a cautious eye and sees her over by the closet, covered from head to toe in that ratty robe, inhaling deeply, rubbing her arm. “I was just about to—,” she begins, but he's talking, too, his words tumbling over hers:

“—I saw you at the door before and thought—,”

“—That you’d barge in without knocking?”

They both stop dead. 

She feels the heat of a blush in her cheeks... and sees that he’s blushing too, furiously. It's a rare sight. He's clearly embarrassed — eyes downcast, hand raking his hair — which is only partially satisfying. She’d been done with this. She’d finally decided to get the hell out of here, had stripped off the fancy lingerie provided by wardrobe, had set out her own practical underwear and was about to head into the bathroom and wash this day down the drain. So of course, he had to come bursting in, overwhelming her, shattering her calm…

But he looks so forlorn now…

“That was rude of me,” she says. “I shouldn’t have said—,”

But he’s talking over her again in a rush:

“—I can’t believe I did that. I’m really sorry—,” 

Both stop, sigh, shuffle self-consciously.

“You first,” she says.

He rubs the back of his neck, convinced he's the world’s biggest jerk. “I saw you peeking out through the door and I thought maybe you wanted to talk or whatever, but obviously you’re…,” he trails off, gesturing lamely at her.

“Shower. I was about to grab a shower,” she says, not meeting his eyes. She cinches the terrycloth belt tighter, twists both ends around her hands.

“Right,” he says, jamming his fists deep into his pockets.  If he'd had a goal beyond simply clapping eyes on her — which he hadn’t, really — it’s gone now. The air between them is so charged and awkward he decides it would be best to leave… but there are voices drifting down the hallway…

He steps quickly into the room and closes the door behind him, turns to see her gaze drop to the floor, pink deepening in her cheeks.  Every cell in his body demands that he go to her. Hold her. Kiss her…

Instead he says, with a tentative, lopsided smile, “I did knock. Kind of.”

But the effort falls flat. She’s not moving and there’s no eager welcome in her face now. She’s aloof, self-contained, watching him almost warily from her spot by the closet. In fact, she’s keeping her distance from him in every possible way, and it suddenly hits him like a blow to the gut — he did go too far in that scene. He did take advantage of the situation. He's one of those jerks who violated her, and now he’s lost her.

He’d been so outraged by the rumors that he’d forgotten all about that possibility. Now the proof is right before his eyes. And here he is, the clueless bully, busting in while she’s half-naked…

But why did she invite him to stay…?

He's confused, decides not to jump to conclusions. In case she’s feeling cornered, he makes himself smaller, non-threatening and says,  “Just wanted to… check in. Are you okay?” 

“Of course,” she says coolly, deliberately giving him nothing to latch onto until she can figure out why he’s here, what he wants. He’s exuding very male energy and is taking up an enormous amount of space, even with his head down and shoulders hunched. He was fine while he was in her imagination, in her memory, in the hallway… but not here, not in real life, where he makes her feel vulnerable and out of control…

“Okay,” he says, deciding not to push, but he can’t suppress the rising misery. Less than half an hour ago they’d been so close, so open with one another, and now she’s all porcelain doll again, unreadable, even to him. Is she pissed, is she punishing him? He considers telling her about the rumors just to get a rise out of her, but that would be cruel and selfish…

He moves to the white leather couch, wants to sit, but hasn't been invited. “This has been some day, hasn’t it?” he says, hoping for _something_...

“Mmm-hmm,” she agrees serenely.

He begins moving his thumb back and forth over the arm of the couch to give himself something to focus on… 

“Well, at least we got through _that,_ ” he says.

She’s too mesmerized by the motion and size of his thumb to understand what he means at first…

_That…_? Oh, the love scene! _That_ that!

“Oh… yes,” she says, with a bit of energy. “Thank God that’s over.” 

She didn’t mean it to sting — it’s just an opinion she thought they both shared — but he frowns, rocks back and scratches his forehead. “Right. Right. Ummm…,” he trails off, and she wants to backpedal, clarify, but he's continuing:

“Yeah, things got pretty heated. I mean... didn't you think so...? Maybe too heated?”

He's eyeing her with a tense expectation she feels across the room… and like the sun breaking through clouds, she knows why he's here — to pick up where they left off.

She could, easily. It’s hard to dismiss how good his body felt... not when it’s standing right in front of her. She’s lifted by a wave of giddiness as images flash hot in that nasty, rebellious part of her mind. She could take his hands, lie back on the couch, ignore the faces in those framed photos on the table… 

And the thought of those faces brings the budding fantasy to a screeching halt. 

“A little heated, true,” she says, biting down hard on her teeth, forcing calm into her voice. “But, you know… the scene—,”

“—Right. Right," he says, nodding energetically. "Of course. The scene called for it.” 

This isn’t going well at all. He thought for a moment that he saw a flash of heat beneath her cool surface, but it vanished as quickly as it came. Did he overstep or didn't he? There are so much they should be saying to each other, but she’s making him work for every inch. And the mere sight of her — dark hair tumbling over her shoulders… impossibly tiny feet… perfectly shaped red lips — it’s all rendering him stupid. He wants to go to her out of sheer masochism, and the hope that moving his body might clear his head… but what if she shrinks from him? He couldn't bear that... so he stays put, using the couch like a shield.

“I do think we sold it…,” he says, just to say something. “The scene, I mean.”

He watches her drop the ends of the belt she'd been twisting, and begin twisting her fingers together in front of her instead… an endearing habit she seems completely unaware of. 

“Oh, me too,” she says, looking past him at the door. “Absolutely. We sold it.” 

“For full price. No haggling.”

She cocks her head like an adorably confused Spaniel.

He scratches his forehead again, feeling like an idiot, can’t believe the shit that comes out of his mouth sometimes. “Joke. Dumb… joke. Play on words. Lame attempt. Never mind.” He parts his lips to continue, but mercifully, nothing comes out.

He's so awkward and helpless that she bites back a smile. She misses their familiar, comfortable camaraderie and wonders why this is so hard. Just because he wants more, or she wants more, or _they_ want more, doesn’t mean  _more_ has to happen. The scene is over, it's done, and ultimately, they have to continue as colleagues, as acting partners. This should be one of their typical end-of-day post mortems — they check in, discuss the scene — it could be that simple, that innocent. Except for the fact that his thumb is moving slowly over the arm of the couch, and she can vividly recall the feel of that thumb between her legs…

“Was it—,” she begins, clears her throat, starts again. “Was it too much, do you think? Did we go overboard?”

We. He’s thrilled to hear the first person plural. Maybe she’s not holding _him_ solely responsible, maybe her distance isn’t a sign of anger or resentment… or maybe she’s just making nice so he’ll leave…

“Nah, no worries,” he says. “We’ve got guys.”

“Guys?”

“Guys. Editors. The editors. They’ll cover for us. Make sure nobody else sees—,” 

“—Oh, right!” She cuts him off before he can supply details, reminding her what they must have looked like on that bed... but his thumb is so active on that leather — she’d give anything to be Liz right now, to  not feel so off balance, to have snappy dialogue at the ready… to make use of that thumb… 

“You know the guys… ?” he’s saying.

"Of course." She _must..._ she knows everyone, but is unable to picture them for the life of her…

“Great guys,” he mutters, not waiting for an answer. He shifts his weight, blows out his cheeks… and finally just says it:

“So, this is incredibly awkward, right? Why do you suppose that is?”

Her mind floods with images — the two of them rolling half-naked in each other’s arms, genitals grinding, soft tongues moving…

“Well,” she gestures broadly to the space between them like it’s obvious.

“Right. Of course.” He pulls a deep breath, pushes it out slowly through his teeth, can’t think of another goddamned thing to say. “So, I guess we’re good then?”

“We’re good,” she says sweetly, sensing he's about to leave and put an end to this torture. “I definitely think we’re good.”

Their eyes dart at and away from one another a few more times, and when it becomes utterly unbearable, he swings his body away and reaches for the doorknob. 

“Okay, great. Like I said, just wanted to check in. So, I’ll see you.”

She’s about to heave a sigh of relief, like she had in very similar circumstances so many hours earlier... when he stops dead, shakes his head hard. 

“Wait. Wait. No. screw this,” he grumbles, turns back and fixes on her like a spotlight. “Look… I’m sorry, but have we said one genuine thing to each other since I barged in here?”

She’s trapped in the beam of his eyes, can’t help but shrug, fingers twisting furiously, body turning this way and that. “Umm, that thing about the editors, maybe?”

He watches her until her face softens with humor, with hesitant affection… and he sees a glimpse of  _her_ again. He chuckles, flooded with glorious warmth, drops his hand from the doorknob and moves back into the room. 

“Okay you. _Talk_ to me. Tell me the truth now — how are you, really?” 

Ugh, so close to freedom. She shrugs, working hard to squelch a fresh bout of panic. Frustration, guilt, intense desire… where to start? Awkwardness is excruciating, but honesty might be worse.

“Fine,” she says. “I’m fine. I guess I’m fine.”

“You guess…?”

“Well… I’m not sure. But I don’t really know if you’re the one I want to discuss this with.”

“Well… if not me, who?”

She bites her lip, searches her vast acquaintanceship for alternatives and comes up empty. “True.”

“We’re kind of in the same boat.”

“Also true.”

He tilts his head down and catches her eye. “I’ll tell you how I am.” 

She grimaces, cringes for effect, making him laugh out loud.

“Nothing mortifying or gross, I promise.”

Relief floods her, and she laughs too, untwists her fingers and drops her hands... and with them her defenses. Because hiding from him for one more moment would be exhausting… and painful.

He sees the thaw as it happens, and it seems to him that torn pieces of himself are now stitching themselves back together, maybe better than ever. He’s seized again by the impulse to sweep her up, lay her down… but the need to clear the air is even stronger.  He makes his way back to the couch, lifts a knee onto the arm, resumes the rhythmic motion of his thumb on the leather and says what he should have said the second he walked in here:

“Okay, so the thing is, there was a lot of anxiety and conversation around that scene, and we both agreed to throw ourselves into it," he says in a rush, glancing up at her. "But in the moment, I feel like I pushed you, like I went too far, and I want to apologize. I’m sorry if I took advantage, if I made you uncomfortable in any way. I would hate myself if I did that.”

She blinks, takes a moment to review, and realizes she has to reframe their entire conversation — his weirdness didn’t mean he wanted to continue what they started on that bed... it meant he felt _guilty_. Her heart aches for him; she was so wrapped up in herself that she not only missed it, but her constant deflections made it almost impossible for him to _tell_ her...

She dislodges herself from her spot by the closet — from safety and uncertainty — and walks right up to him.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” she says firmly. “You didn’t push me, or take advantage of me.” 

He looks doubtful, doesn't quite meet her eyes.

“I would tell you,” she laughs. “Believe me, you’d know it.”

She's beside him now, so close, so vivid and present it’s like she’s emerged from a painting and into real life, where there’s love, joy and possibility... but also chaos, pain and danger. H e’s struck by the desire to put her back where she came from, to keep her safe… 

“We’re _okay_ ,” she’s saying with a gentle, radiant smile. “And the same goes for you. If I did _anything_ —,”

He shakes his head vehemently. “You didn’t. You couldn’t. Trust me.”

“I do trust you." She lays a small hand on his arm, and as though she’s reading his mind, she says, "And I always feel safe with you.”

He swallows hard, jaw working, not quite certain his voice won’t break.

“That means everything to me,” he says, and resolves then and there to do whatever it takes — _whatever it takes_ — to keep her from harm of any kind. Especially from himself.

She watches his thumb slow on the leather, then stop completely, and he looks into her eyes. She knows they’re wet with unshed tears, that they might reveal truths she’s almost ready to acknowledge… 

_I do trust you, but I don’t trust myself… and if we start this, I won’t be able to stop…_

She nearly says it, it’s on the tip of her tongue, but he’s raising his arm for her, inviting her closer… and she glides beneath it without hesitation, slips her ams around his waist and lays her head on his chest. 

“That was awful," she says instead. "How did we get so far apart?”

“I don’t know.” He gathers her close, breathes her scent, revels in the softness of her hair beneath his chin. “But we’re home now.”

 

**_To be continued…_ **


	13. Chapter 13

“You feel good,” he says, holding her close. “Why do you have to feel so good.”

She snuggles deeper into his arms and sighs. “This is the best part. I love your hugs.”

“I don’t know if it’s the _best_ part… we had some interesting things happening on that bed…,”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” she laughs. “Thank God for the guys.”

“You don’t even know who I was talking about.”

“Of course, I did! I was just… distracted.”

“By…?”

“You. This.” She tugs his arm loose from around her, grabs his hand by the thumb and shakes it. “What were you trying to imply with that thing, anyway?”

He vacantly glances at the offending digit, remembers touching the couch. “Nothing, just… you know me, I’m never still.” Then he puts two-and-two together… realizes that, oh it’s _that_ thumb… 

“I bet it smells like you,” he says, flooded by heat, voice dropping an octave.

Her eyes fly charmingly wide. “Ew, shut up,” she cries, bats his hand away and nestles under his arm again. 

He chuckles lightly. “God, this is so much better, isn’t it? We were like pod people before. Yuck.”

“Yuck is right.”

“Speaking of yuck...” He picks at a loose thread on the shoulder of her bathrobe. “I can’t believe you still wear this thing. What happened to the one the wardrobe people got you for Christmas? It had roses on it or something…”

“This is fine,” she says, muffled against his chest.

“What color was this originally? It couldn’t have been good even then. Hmm… what color fades to rancid mushroom—,”

“—Shut _up_!” she giggles, shoves away from him, doesn’t seem to notice that the robe has slipped off her shoulder…

He's caught by the sight, hesitates before reaching out a tentative hand. He knows he shouldn’t, but he gently caresses her exposed skin where the robe has fallen away… so incredibly soft, so inviting... then he inhales sharply, grasps the material and pulls it up, covering her again. 

“How do you manage to look so beautiful in something like that,” he says softly.

Her dark gray eyes are moving slowly over his face, her full lips are parting… and the visceral memory of her on that bed is too much…

“You know,” he says gruffly. “This thing is inside out.”He tugs at the exposed tag on the collar to distract himself from the images in his mind. 

She cranes her neck around to see the tag like a dog chasing its tail, seems to realize the futility and gives up.

“I dressed in a hurry,” she says pointedly.

“My bad.”

“Yes, _your_ bad,” 

“Yeah, so why _did_ you let me stay," he says, recalling how cool and distant she'd been. "I clearly wasn’t welcome.”

She purses her lips, tilts her head. “Curiosity, I guess,” she says lightly. “Closure.”

“You want closure…”

“I want…,” she looks up, and whatever she'd planned to say seems to vanish as their eyes lock, the air between them thickens…

And into that air he projects a dozen possible _wants —_  loving, erotic, playful, mundane — but it’s up to her. It will always be up to her.

“You _want_ …,” he prompts, voice low, thumb caressing her long, white throat…

She swallows, drops her eyes and breaks the spell. “There’s that thumb again,” she says with a tight, breathless laugh.

He blinks away his projections... and recovers by holding his hand out at arm’s length, turning his thumb this way and that. “This old thing?" he says. "I have another just… like…,”

He trails off as she takes his hand, draws it toward her lips and kisses his palm, her eyes slipping closed… but she  suddenly drops it and backs away like someone slapped her out of a dream. “I’m sorry,” she gasps. 

“Don’t be,” he says... because she just chose. On some level she chose, and a switch has flipped inside him, turning on his body, turning off his mind.

“That was… uncalled for,” she stammers, retreating another step. “It was provocative…”

“Yes, it was.”

“We’re supposed to be past this—,”

“—But we’re not.”

For every step she takes away from him, he takes a bigger step toward her until she’s flattened herself against the wall. She’s so small, her breathing shallow, face flushed… just like when she was beneath him on that bed. He’s hardening, needs to feel her, finds the belt of her robe… it’s loose, just a tug…

“Please,” she whispers… 

_Please don’t stop, please touch me_ , he wants to hear…

But what she’s really saying, in a voice so plaintive and raw, is: 

“Please don't, I have to get changed. I have to go home now.”

And then she slips away, like smoke on a breeze. He drops his forehead hard against the wall, into the void where she’d been, and closes his eyes.

But she stops a few feet away. He can feel her heat. He can feel her roiling anxiety as acutely as if it’s his own. She’s making small sounds of struggle, and he looks up just in time to see her turn toward him stiffly, like the movement is agony. Her face is a cocktail of hope and terror, but she takes a deep breath, quickly unties the belt... and lets it drop to the floor. The robe falls opens, just enough to reveal the inner swell of her breasts, her white stomach, the soft tuft of curls between her legs… 

It’s a shocking move, so uncharacteristic it engages his mind again… as well as his heart. They both tell him to go to her, close the robe, kiss her and leave — protect her from gossip, the world, even from herself — keep her _safe from harm of any kind_. But his body is aching for her, has been for hours, and she’s offering herself, sliding the robe from her shoulders now, letting it pool at her feet…

#

She watches his eyes darken, but beyond straightening up, he doesn’t move, doesn’t react. And in that space, she’s sideswiped by doubt. Maybe she jerked him around once too often, or maybe he’s disappointed — after all, only one man has seen her quite this naked in nearly twenty years, she's had three kids and maybe… maybe…

But she started this, for better or worse, so she throws her shoulders back, lifts her chin and forces herself not to hide… allows him to see her… 

Yet panic is gathering in her chest and it’s entirely possible she might pass out. He slowly raises a very guarded gaze, looks only into her face, lingers for a moment as though searching… and then his eyes slide like hot molasses down her body — over her breasts, her stomach, the curves of her hips, lingering on her thighs — before slowly retracing their steps and returning to her face. 

He’s expressionless — so rare a thing it must be deliberate — but she’s begun shaking like a virgin, and can’t help noticing again how large he is in this room, and how very hard it is to breathe… 

“Are you sure,” he says, the slightest catch in his voice. 

She’s not sure, not at all. He’s seen her now, and that could be enough… this lowering of her very last defense. It’s no big deal, right? — people see each other naked all the time… and he’s seen more of her than most. She could bend down now, nonchalantly pull the robe back on, say something light… 

Instead she nods her assent, gives him a tremulous smile… 

But it’s too late. He’s turning away and is heading for the door. 

She’s crestfallen, starts to fold her arms over her breasts when she hears the metallic click of the deadbolt lock. She raises her eyes to find him watching her under his brow like a jungle cat, so openly hungry that she’s seized by an impulse to run... but is paralyzed by the promise and terror of the moment… 

#

He’ll devour her… that’s what he wants as he crosses back to her. Devour each and every soft curve, right here and now. 

“Jesus, you’re beautiful,” he says, low and meaning it, and stops within inches of her. She’s trembling, biting her lip, moving to cover herself, then forcing her arms down to her sides again. He sees her glance at the pictures on the table, pain shading her eyes…

“I haven’t been with anyone…,” she begins, breaks off, swallowing hard… so conflicted...

And as always, when faced with her turmoil, he hurts. 

“Shh,” he grinds out, struggling to douse the fire inside, to keep his attention on her face and away from anything that might tempt his hands, his mouth. “It’s okay. We don’t have to—,”

“—I _want_ to,” she cries. “I started this. What the hell is _wrong_ with me?”

He sighs heavily, takes her hand and kisses it, presses it to his cheek, barely keeping his own rising frustration in check because, though he can't take much more of this, he _understands_. 

"No more scenes to play," he says. “It’s just us. It's real now.” 

She seems to sag with regret, resignation… and gently slips her fingers into his hair, caressing so softly…

“I wish it weren't real,” she murmurs, on the verge of tears. “I wish we could go on pretending to be them. It would be so much easier.”

He looks down into her wet, bottomless coal-gray eyes, struck by a notion that seems at once brilliant, intensely erotic and utterly insane. 

"Then let’s pretend,” he says.

_** To be continued... ** _


	14. Chapter 14

Her mouth drops open. “You want to…,” 

“Pretend. To be them,” he says, like it’s the answer to everything.

She blinks back the tears she was so close to shedding, and he can’t quite tell if she’s horrified by the suggestion, or merely skeptical.

“Maybe," he says with less certainty. "Or… not...” 

She looks doubtful. “What about,  _don’t pretend… be with me…_ ”

“Okay, I said that. I did. And it got us through the scene... right?”

Her hand moves in his hair again… a soft ruffle, before she drops it and clasps both hands over her heart, lowering her eyes. “Yes… okay. That’s true.” 

“ Just remember _that_ before you scoff at one of my bright ideas," he teases.

She looks up at him like she’s been drawn back from far away.  “So we would pretend to be them,” she says, testing the notion. “Like improv.” 

“Exactly like improv, only—”

“—X-rated improv,” she laughs with a note of hysteria, eyeing the photos on the table, shoulders hunching like she wants to disappear...

“Hey, not necessarily.” He makes his tone harmless, soothing. He’s seeing distress in her again, and there’s only so much he can take. “It’s just a suggestion, right?” 

As she considers, he keeps his eyes tight on her face — only her face — and watches a complex of emotions chase one another over her features: apprehension, intrigue, guilt, arousal...

He cups her chin, lifts it until their eyes meet. “It’s just me,” he whispers. “No cameras, no lights, no gorilla-sized crew guys—”

“—Nothing to stop us…,” she says, with a burst of dread.

He takes a deep breath. “ _We’ll_ stop us, if one of us thinks things are getting out of hand. We could have a safe word.”

She knits her brow, looks confused… and he’s struck once again by how innocent she’s managed to remain in this town, in this business, in this nest of vipers… 

“A random word that will stop things in their tracks,” he explains. “No questions asked.”

She's chewing her lips, radiating anxiety, arms clenched so tightly over her chest he’s about to call the whole thing off… when she says, “What word, like… cucumber?”

He bites back a smile. “Ummm… maybe, but it should be something unrelated to the action,” he says. “Elizabeth might want to say, _Franco, your penis reminds me of a cucumber_ , and then where would we be?”

She blushes wildly, claps a hand over her mouth and dissolves into embarrassed laughter that goes on a bit too long. She moves closer to him, and he feels her trembling as she presses into his chest... still laughing, but with an increasingly manic edge. She seems to be coming apart, and he embraces her, holds her tightly until she gradually begins to quiet, the tension draining from her body… just as he’d hoped it would. Nothing like the disarming power of a dumb penis joke…

“Better?” he says, looking down into her face.

She drags her eyes up to his, sips a few weak, shaky breaths… 

“Nope, not better yet. Breathe with me.” He hauls in a comically huge breath, expanding his chest… and she does the same… once, twice… and then they exhale in long, loud harmony.

“Better now?”

“Better,” she nods.

“Okay, then,” he says with finality. “Enough of this. You’re going home.” He watches himself release her, grab the robe from the floor, wrap it around her… but in reality, he doesn’t seem to be moving.

“No!” she's saying. “Absolutely not. This is ridiculous! I can do this.”

“Why? It’s not a test. It’s not punishment. No one’s life is at stake.”

“Because I _want_ to. I do.” She makes a determined sound he knows better than to argue with. “Donut,” she says firmly.

“What?” 

“Donut. Safe word. It’s from a scene we did, in the hub, remember?”

“Oh, right… _right_.” He does remember… holding her, playing with the ends of her hair, feeling her arms around him. So many small moments of genuine intimacy he hadn’t recognized at the time. “Donut it is.”

“Good. So what’s the scene,” she says. “Should I start out naked?”

“I don’t mind,” he grins. 

“Shut up!” she squeaks and playfully slaps his chest.

“Why do you keep telling me to shut up?” he fake whines. He’s still holding her, lightly now, and he can feel no tension in her, no resistance… just a playful eagerness… a touch of  _Elizabeth_ -ness…

“Because," she says. " You keep saying things that require me to tell you to shut up.” 

“Fair enough." 

Now that things have settled, he’s becoming aware of her small, naked body in his arms, the softness of her skin, the scent of her hair… his own anticipation. “Okay, so you’re Elizabeth,” he says, a bit more gruffly than he means to.

“And you’re Franco.”

“Or we could mix it up and I could be Elizabeth — ouch, I know,” he laughs, in response to the poke in his ribs. “Shut up.”

A thought flashes in his brain — he should tell her about the rumors, let her make an informed decision before this goes any further. But the news would only upset her, he reminds himself. He’ll handle it… she doesn’t need to know.

“Okay," she says. "And we all know that the key to good improv is…?” 

“Going with it. Saying Yes/And to whatever’s thrown at you.”

She nods and he watches her pull another breath... this time cleansing, preparatory. Her energy is very different, and he realizes, with a rush of complicated emotions... that she's become  _Elizabeth_.

"So you've been away in Manhattan for a solo art show," she says, moving to the couch. "And I've been missing you so badly that I came down to visit you. I'm waiting for you in your hotel room, you come in, you find me, and... _go!"_

_** To be continued... ** _


	15. Chapter 15

_Interior: Franco’s Hotel Room, Manhattan_

Franco drops his hand from the doorknob, looks around the darkened room.

“What the hell…,” he mutters, fumbles for the light switch on the wall, finds it, flips it, blinks at the sudden brightness.

He could use a drink, spots a thermos on the counter beneath the wall length mirror. As he heads toward it, he glances at his reflection… and sees the reflection of something else, something stunning lounging on the white leather couch…

“Jesus…,” he gasps, turning toward her.

“Hi, stranger,” she says, wearing a sultry smile… and nothing else. She bites her lip, stretches her body shamelessly, like a cat in the sun. “Miss me?” 

She’s too much to take in, must be a hallucination. He closes his eyes, chest aching. “Yeah, I did,” he says. “I can’t tell you how much.” He opens his eyes again, expecting her to be gone… but she’s watching him with coal-gray eyes, hair dark, soft and loose around her shoulders, lips wet and parted, skin glowing like she’s lit from within…

“Take off your shirt,” she says softly.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he says.

“Shirt… off.”

Eyes raking her body, he gives her a slow smile, takes his time opening the buttons one by one, then moves on to the cuffs. When he’s done he stands there, shirt hanging open... challenging her.

“Off,” she whispers.

He peels the shirt back over his shoulders, drops it to the floor. He hears her little hiss, stands up straighter, subtly flexes the muscles of his chest and abdomen. He knows he looks good — he’s been hitting the gym since he’s been away from her, spending time in the sun… why not show it off. And he’s enjoying her gaze on him — open, hungry, appreciative. He’s been partially erect from the moment he saw her, but now he's fully hard, straining at his jeans…

“You’re too far away,” she says, extending her hand to him.

He slowly crosses the room, feeling the strength in his lean body, blood and heat thrumming in his veins... predatory. He stops by the couch and looks down at her. Her pupils are dilated, fully black. He loves seeing her like this... expectant, wanting him. He’s sure she’s wet, and the thought makes his jaw clench, his cock leap. Still, he towers above her, makes her wait… but she doesn’t wait. She reaches up and strokes her fingertips along the front of his jeans, molds her palm to his shape, presses… and he can’t help but rock hard against her hand with a low, involuntary growl, fever heat washing over him, prickling his skin…

She shifts her body, reaches with both hands and begins unbuttoning his jeans, one button at a time, as he watches her face. She’s bold, so sure of herself, and she falters only once… swallowing hard, fingers pausing, lips trembling. He takes her wrist then, pushes it over her head as he plants a knee between her legs and looms over her. She gasps, chest heaving, nipples dark and taut. He leans down, slides his other hand beneath her head and pulls her up for a hot, open-mouthed kiss. She makes a small mewling sound and returns the kiss ravenously, her tongue rolling into his mouth, leg snaking over his hip, body rising… all so small and soft and ready…

He breaks the kiss, lays his brow on hers.

“I love you,” he whispers and freezes with shock the second it’s out of his mouth. But she seems to take it in stride… in character. She kisses him harder, shoves her hand into his hair and hangs on…

What an incredible relief to finally say it out loud. Not as Franco, but as himself. He hasn’t been Franco since the instant he saw her in that mirror. 

Not once.

**_ To be continued... _ **


	16. Chapter 16

_Interior: Franco’s Hotel Room, Manhattan_

_I love you…_

His words burn through her, spark a shiver of panic… but she instantly places them in their proper context — improvised words, appropriate to the scene, Franco’s words to Elizabeth. And she’s Elizabeth, with Elizabeth’s hair and makeup… and even without Elizabeth’s clothes (with no clothes at all, in fact) she has Elizabeth’s attitude — newly-bold, newly-assertive, a woman who takes what she wants — and she wants _him_ …

_Yes/And…_

… she should say it back to him. _I love you._ Elizabeth would say it… but the words won’t come, seem walled off in a place she can’t reach. Instead, she presses her free hand over his heart and whispers, in Elizabeth’s voice, “I missed you so much, Franco.”

There’s the slightest flash of relief in his eyes, just before he leans down and kisses her, sinking so softly and deeply into her mouth… and what an incredible pleasure it is to really kiss him, with no reservations, no one watching, no need to be distant and respectful of a fellow actor — just mouths opening, tongues gliding, so sensuous and hungry, and she feels the erotic intimacy of his kiss dissolving her bones…

Elizabeth's bones, she reminds herself — she’s Elizabeth — and it’s been so long since she’s seen her lover, kissed her lover… this man who has helped her regain her confidence, has freed her, sexually. 

He breaks the kiss, leaving her breathless. She needs more, she craves him... Elizabeth does…

_Yes/And…_

… since she’s improvising, what would Elizabeth do now? She would do this — slide her hand down over the hard muscles of his stomach, thrill to the sound of his groan as she reaches into his open jeans and wraps her hand around him. She’s shocked by the size and feel of him… but Elizabeth wouldn’t be. She knows his body, knows what he likes, how to please him. She ignores the clenching in her gut, and the small, silent voice saying, _be present for this_ … _this is really happening_ … 

Because he’s lifting his hips now to give her more room, rocking into her loose grip… and with a strangled moan he drops his head to her breast, licks, bites, sucks her nipple into his mouth, sending shockwaves through her body, bringing her solidly back into the moment... whimpering, arching up to him, stroking him the way Elizabeth would…

It’s good that he’s being aggressive, not slow, not tender. This way she doesn’t have time to think or listen to small voices, only to _act, react_ , be carried along in the scene, reminded that Elizabeth’s motivation is _need_ — she missed him desperately, felt like an essential part of her went numb when he left and has only today reawakened, is only now tingling and alive again…

She and Elizabeth have that in common.

And for a moment the mask slips and she’s utterly herself — naked and vulnerable under his mouth, one hand pinned above her head, the other filled with him. She’s aching for him… her partner, her dearest friend. She squeezes her eyes shut, needs to regain her footing in the midst of this self-imposed schizophrenia… 

Two Get-Out-of-Jail-Free cards. That was the deal she made with her husband. Two one-night stands with people who don’t matter, people who aren’t a threat to the marriage. Safe people.

And that’s not _him_ — he matters. He’s not safe. 

But Franco is safe. Franco is pretend, Franco is fantasy… and she’s allowed to do this, she has permission… no one will get hurt as long as it’s physical, as long as she can convince herself that this is simply a very adult scene she’s playing, and not a wildly selfish, delusional choice that threatens everything she holds dear…

She’s allowed, as long as emotion stays out of it.

She opens her eyes to the exquisite torture of him teasing her nipple, catches sight of the two of them in the mirror on the wall… and it incinerates her. His huge hand is holding her white breast, his dark hair falling as he bends to her, a glimpse of his wet tongue — Elizabeth and Franco, making love after a long separation. Yes, she can do this, she can remain Elizabeth. Elizabeth can feel the emotions… and in that way, this can go on…

Peals of laughter suddenly ring outside the door…

She hastily pulls her hand away from him, and they both freeze… breath held, suspended in time… listening until the sounds gradually pass and fade away… 

He releases a slow breath, face pale as he looks down at her and attempts a smile. “Did I mention there’s a convention at this hotel? Bunch of _actors_ ,” he says with distaste…

_Yes/And…_

… insert quip here:

“I wondered what that smell was,” she says. 

His laughter is genuine… the corners of his light eyes crinkling so delightfully. And she laughs with him, dispelling very little of her tension, searching for something Elizabeth might say, and she can only come up with:

“Can I have my other hand back?”

She's vaguely disappointed when he complies, releasing her wrist from above her head. She liked the feeling of being restrained, the hint of another side to him, something less... chivalrous. He quirks a brow. “Got plans for it?” 

“Just this.” She gently, lovingly smooths a lock of hair from his forehead, watches it stubbornly fall back into place… and as he smiles down at her, her heart swells. “It’s so good to finally be with you,” she says softly, and regrets it the instant she realizes that  _she_ said that _,_ not Elizabeth.

His eyes widen, face softens with recognition — he saw the slip, knows she broke character…

Dammit, he knows…

“So, _Elizabeth_ ,” he says, covering for her to an audience of two. “I’m thinking that with all those nasty actor-types roaming the halls, it’s probably best to stay in the room.” He kisses her, lingers, kisses her again… then begins moving… lips brushing her neck, her breasts, his body sliding down… and when she realizes where he’s headed, her mouth goes dry, heart slams violently in her chest… 

She recalls his words in the Green Room…

_They’ve been apart for months… missing each other…_

Of course this would happen, the entire day has been leading up to it, and it should come as no surprise… and isn’t this what she wanted…?

_Elizabeth has more agency now, she expects to receive satisfaction from Franco… he's aching for her… he'd want to give her that pleasure… he’d do anything for her…_

She tenses, gnaws her lip, can barely watch as he kisses down her stomach, draws back and slides his hands under her thighs. In their scene, Elizabeth had given him a sexy, satisfied smile… and she tries to embody that now, fights the urge to snap her knees together and hide herself… but he’s irresistible, licking his lips, eyes dark and heavy-lidded as he gently hooks her legs over his broad shoulders and settles himself down between her thighs…

She starts shivering. It’s been almost twenty years since anyone else has done this to her, or even seen her like this. It’s almost too intimate. _Elizabeth_ has more experience. Elizabeth wouldn’t be shivering… but if she were, Franco would whisper to her, soothe her, kiss and caress her thighs… be caring and patient with her, just as he’s doing now…

And finally, when she sighs and relaxes, she feels his thumb begin to stroke her, _that damn thumb…_ and she shivers all over again, slams her eyes shut and grabs for his hair.

_Franco’s_ hair, she reminds herself. And it’s Franco’s thumb… and now Franco’s fingers, gently exploring her, and Franco’s breath, so warm and close… and finally Franco’s lips…

And at the first feather-light touch of his tongue, she bucks, lets out a yelp that echoes in the room… and he reaches up and briefly slips a hand over her mouth, silencing her. 

“Sshhh. Actors,” he murmurs, lips moving against her… and in that moment, it's the most erotic word she’s ever heard.

_Yes/And…_

… she manages to calm herself then, to breathe, lay back, let herself ease into the thrilling novelty of this physical experience, enjoy the expert, whisper-soft movements of Franco’s tongue…

She wants to see him, gathers the nerve to look down. He’s so beautiful there between her thighs... eyes closed, so attuned to her, so absorbed. As usual, his hair is flopping over his brow, and as she reaches down to smooth it back, his eyes open, meet hers… and a profound wave of joy washes over her, filling her heart. It forces the air from her lungs, the doubts from her mind… 

It’s like finding safe harbor in a storm. It’s like coming home.

_I don’t want to be them…,_ the small, silent voice tells him. _I don’t want to pretend anymore. I want it to be you_. _I need it to be you..._

She stiffens, seized by a wave of panic. 

“Donut,” she gasps.

**_To be continued…_ **


	17. Chapter 17

_Focus… focus… focus_

The word has been repeating like a mantra in his mind, bringing him back to his rational center whenever her soft purrs or a shivery tilt of her hips momentarily shredded him, sent him spinning into fantasy, into scenarios where he’s not gentle with her, not patient, not giving… but instead he’s selfish and wild, surging up, seizing her hips, plunging deep, fucking her hard enough and well enough that she can no longer maintain these fortifications of hers and she’s flushed and sweaty beneath him, clinging to him, wailing his name…

Because she’s been alternately present... then not. Herself... then her character... one, then the other. The body's the same, but the responses couldn’t be more different — a beautiful, tenuous surrender, versus cool confidence. Back and forth, back and forth until finally, for self-protection, he has to be Franco again, fully and completely, has to force away his own needs because that was the deal he suggested, the deal they agreed to — _to pretend._ To be _them._ And to be himself now is to break her trust. So Franco it is, for both their sakes. Franco is the one she wants, Franco is the one she's with.

And he can only hope that someday, if the stars align and the timing is right, they can both be themselves in the same moment… a perfect dovetailing of reality and desires. But now is not that time. 

So Franco is the one holding her thighs in his hands, feeling her quiver against his tongue, being flayed alive by the hundred subtle ways she’s surrendering _._ He's the one lost in her scent and softness... the one who's feeling her fingers slip gently into his hair...

He opens his eyes and sees, not Elizabeth... but  _her._ And a tenderness so close to love that his heart soars and breaks in equal measure… 

But her skin goes pale, the look vanishes… and then there’s only panic.

“Donut,” she gasps…

He freezes. It’s all he can do as he tries to process the shocking emotion he saw, the abrupt killing of it, the bizarre word…

_Donut_ … yes, yes… the safe word that will stop things in their tracks, no questions asked…

He drops his hands from her thighs, rocks back from her like she stung him. _I’m sorry_ , he wants to say, though he’s not quite sure what’s happening, what he did.  But her hand is still in his hair, and through the tumult in his mind he hears her saying words that almost form a coherent thought, but don’t quite… 

“No, _no_ ,” she’s saying. “It’s not… please, I don’t…,” 

So he stays where he is and waits — poised between her thighs, touching her nowhere, palms flat on the cool leather, heart pounding — and he reminds himself, through bitter disappointment — _no questions asked._

#

His withdrawal from her is as absolute as it is sudden, yet he’s watching her under his brow now, coiled like a spring, vibrating with potential energy. She can feel it under her fingers and she curls them, a light grip in his hair, holding him in place until she can do something more than stutter nonsense… because he could so easily slip away…

_I don’t want to pretend anymore. I want it to be you. I need it to be you..._

But she can’t say it aloud that without fully understanding what it means, if it’s real or just hormones, and how he might react. It’s an admission that would open the door to a thousand complications she’s not ready for, so she closes her eyes on how beautiful he is, on the guarded look in his hazel eyes, on how his lips glisten with her…

“I’m sorry,” she says, with a light, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m a little overwhelmed. I just need a minute.” 

“Do you want to stop?” he says. She knows he’s going for a soft tone, but she hears rocks grinding beneath. She could say _yes, we should stop_. How simple that would make things. She could let go of his hair, scoot back, close her legs, go home to her family, show up for work tomorrow and pretend none of this ever happened…

She draws a slow, deep breath, holds it, and asks herself: What would Elizabeth do? Well, Elizabeth would never have said _donut_ in the first place. Elizabeth wouldn’t have needed a safe word. Elizabeth is brave. Yes, she could slip back into character and simply enjoy him, let herself have the amazing orgasm she was building toward… and then whatever comes next — which is hazy and intoxicating and fills her with vague terror — comes next.

She lets out the air that did absolutely nothing to calm her. Instead she feels a crisis looming, feels herself to be balanced on the edge of a knife… but a sudden flare of rage anchors her — this is _his fault_. It’s his fault she’s so confused and out-of-control today. She hates this internal chaos; it's so rare she doesn’t know how to deal with it. She tightens her grip in his hair, is gratified to hear a little hiss, but she eases back immediately. No, not his fault. It’s her fault. She’s complicit in how close they've become, the subtle merging of their minds, the shared humor and secret language, the unwavering trust. She’s let him into places even her husband has never been… and she knows that the answer to all this turmoil is right in front of her, if only she’d open her eyes to him and see her best, truest self reflected back to her… 

In _his_ eyes. Not Franco’s eyes, never again Franco’s. It’s much too late for that. 

But she keeps her eyes closed.

“Who are we?” she whispers without really meaning to, and flinches at the pain in her voice. _Are we THEM, are we out of synch — one of us in character, one of us out of character — because that would be okay… as long as we aren’t both ourselves. Not at the same time…_

A reply doesn’t come right away. The question hangs in the air until she’s not sure she asked it aloud, and she begins to hope she hadn’t… 

“Who do you want to be,” he says… so low, so warm, but she can tell by the tone that he needs an answer. He deserves one, after all the back and forth, the bobbing and weaving, the creative pretenses. So does she…

But his hair is like silk between her fingers, and she finds that she’s gently pulling him, urging him toward her again. “Don’t stop,” she breathes. A non-answer answer… but it’s the best she can do right now. It's what Elizabeth would do. She wants him, plain and simple… that’s not in doubt. And maybe if she keeps her eyes closed — and with it her heart — they can stay in the in-between place of sensation and physical pleasure where there are no labels, no confessions, no betrayals… 

Just floating in the illusion of safety.

_** To be continued... ** _


	18. Chapter 18

All the while she weighed and decided their fate, he managed to keep himself in check. To stay still and keep his mouth shut. In the past, he would have taken it upon himself to give her an out, but the fever in him is high, too high, and as he watched her mind work during those endless, agonizing moments he willed her with all his might to say _yes_ , once and for all. He no longer cares who the fuck they are, what it all means, who might hear, if the world blows up around them… he _wants_ her. 

And now that he has her permission, he shoves his hands under her perfect round ass, lifts her to his mouth, and doubts that even a baker’s dozen of gasped or shouted _donuts_ could stop him now…

She's different, too. Where before she was either tentative or coolly confident, now she's more present, open and uninhibited. And as he tunes into her, learns her shivers and cries, he plays with her the way he does in a scene… to see what she’ll do, how she’ll respond. And respond she does, writhing beneath his tongue with soft, helpless, musical sounds that make him rock hard, ravenous and dizzy, spiraling him higher and higher on the pleasure he’s giving her. She’s holding nothing back, keeping nothing from him but her eyes, hidden securely beneath the arm she's thrown over her brow… 

He needs her eyes in this moment, needs their deep, effortless connection, needs to see how this feels for her. He imagines them storm gray and flashing… and maybe he’ll see that breathtaking, terrifying expression on her face again… the one so close to love...

He pauses, stroking her folds lightly with his finger. “Look at me,” he whispers. 

She stiffens, makes a small, pained sound, but her arm remains in place over her eyes. She simply rocks her hips for him to continue... and he knows the answer is _no_. 

_No, I won’t look at you, no, I won’t connect with you, no I need this distance. Please, let me have this distance…_

So he gives it to her. And he creates distance for himself, too, enough for his aching, constricted heart to expand, enough to stop caring quite so much. He knows about her now, how to get her off quickly — some focused pressure here and here — so he gives her that, too. And as her hips begin to tremble and her keening sounds build, he weaves their fingers together and tries to feel nothing. And as she convulses, as she bites down on her cry and shatters against his mouth, he simply grips her hand, keeps her anchored, stays with her until the waves pass and she sinks back, boneless and whimpering.

He kisses her thigh, sits up and pushes himself away to the end of the couch. Her white, satiated body, her curves and wetness are spread before him and the pain he feels almost chokes him. He swallows it all down, reaches out with trembling hands and gently brings her knees together, hiding her from view. 

He once again retreats into the safety of their improvised scene... into Franco. “I miss doing that,” he says.

She doesn’t react at first, then lowers her arm from her brow. Her eyes slowly open and fix on the ceiling. She licks her lips, and as she does so, her attitude and body language shift as though she’s exchanging one skin for another. He watches, fascinated in spite of himself.

“You’re amazing, as always,” Elizabeth purrs, gathering her legs beneath her… and it’s only when she leans toward him and slides her hands over his crotch that he realizes the buttons of his jeans are still open…

He grabs her wrists a bit too forcefully. “I’m fine,” he says.

She looks up at him, all herself again… soft, confused, a bit hurt. Long hair falling around her bare shoulders. Face flushed. Lips red and swollen from the biting of them. So sensual and beautiful and available, _wanting him_ … but on her own terms. Always on her terms. 

He lets go of her wrists, shoves to his feet and buttons his jeans, aware that she’s watching his face with silent questions… 

_ Look at me... _

But now he’s the one refusing that simple connection. He knows he’s being petulant, irrational. This was the agreement, she did nothing wrong — she was simply playing her role. That’s the problem. 

“Well,” he says, running a palm over his goatee, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck like he’s just had a good workout. “I’m glad this happened. Took the edge off, don’t you think?” 

She draws her knees up to her chest and gives him a weak, resigned, slightly stunned little smile. “Absolutely,” she says.

“So we’re good for tomorrow,” he says, edging toward the door. “The scene in the studio.”

“Good to go,” she agrees, wrapping her arms around her legs, melting back into her detached serenity.

He sways, clamps his eyes shut, caught in the grip of conflicting emotions. He knows that she knows he’s full of shit. A huge thing just happened between them and he should stay, discuss, make sure she’s okay… but instead he’s running away… and she’s letting him. And he’s grateful for it. 

He hauls in a deep breath and throws up his hands, admitting everything and nothing. “We’ll talk later,” he grunts. It’s the best he can do.

“I know,” she says, and lays her cheek on her upraised knees. He slowly opens the door, checks the hallway like a criminal, and as he steps out, he watches her eyes drift not to him and his baffling departure, but to the table crowded with photographs... smiling faces in antique silver frames… 

He closes the door behind him.

#

The water is hot, pelting his skin, steam is rising around him in the shower of his hotel room. His arm is braced against the tile wall, his cock is in his other hand. He sees her white body spread before him, her salty/sweet taste is in his mouth, her muffled cries are in his head and it’s all swirling — anger and passion, desire, frustration, shame and love — driving him higher, peaking… and he jerks, comes hard with a strangled gasp, knees buckling, head dropping onto his arm... until finally the blessed, long-delayed orgasm is finished with him…

He stumbles out of the bathroom, exhausted in every way, rubbing his wet hair with a towel, another is slung low around his hips. He hears his cell phone vibrating on the night stand, drops onto the bed, picks it up without glancing at the caller ID.

“Hey Dad, watcha doin’…?” 

His daughter’s voice.

Never in his life has he wanted so much to simply die.

**_To be continued…_ **


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter inspired & informed by: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kbzEJSpABog

_###_

_Interior: Franco’s Studio._

She stands to the side, arms crossed, and watches him studiously avoid her as the set is prepped for taping the first of the day’s several scenes. He arrived only minutes ago, uncharacteristically late… and beyond a glance and a tight nod, he’s barely acknowledged her. And she has questions.

They were supposed to run lines in the Green Room that morning and her excitement — no her _giddiness_ , if she’s honest — at the prospect of seeing him had her nearly jumping out of her skin. She had so much to say to him, had planned it out so there’d be no confusion, no room for misinterpretation… but gradually, as the hour ticked by, she began to doubt herself, grew confused, her jubilant mood giving way to simmering dread, and her little speech seemed downright absurd. Still, she waited, stared at his empty chair, played with the yellow highlighter and bags of munchies she’d brought for him, chewed her lip and pondered. Where the hell was he? Did his absence have to do with last night? Was he freaked out, angry, snubbing her, dead in a ditch? Or worse, disgusted by the incident? And how should she react when she sees him? What attitude should she adopt… what words, what tone? Outright anger, teasing reproach, affectionate curiosity, lust, regret… or should she just go with the heartfelt confession she’d spent the entire morning preparing? 

But there was no point in settling on anything — not until she could see his eyes, read in his face the emotions he could never quite hide from her.

Yet ultimately, as the morning passed and he didn't show, there was only one conclusion she could reach — last night was a mistake. It should never have happened. And now everything between them was in ruins...

......

As the lights are adjusted on the set, she works to catch his eye, needs _something_  from him one way or the other to quell this anxiety, but he’s keeping solidly away from her like she’s diseased. She can only clench her jaw and watch him move self-consciously around the studio, fingers raking his shiny hair as he finds his marks, reviews his script, talks with the director. He’s looking particularly beautiful today, in a dark, form-fitting shirt and tight jeans… but she reminds herself that her view of him is distorted by her tangled emotions, by the smoldering fire banked low in her belly, by the visceral memory of his hands and mouth on her body…

She shakes off the images and forces herself to focus on Pam from wardrobe, fussing around her, tightening a loose button, her wild red hair bobbing as she chats away about nothing… 

But she can’t focus, because she's been intimate with him and now he’s _ignoring_ her, and because reality sucks. That’s why she tried so strenuously to keep it at bay.

After he’d left her dressing room last night, she’d stayed prone on that couch for what seemed like hours, replaying every second of their encounter in a continuous loop… her body so warm and relaxed, glowing with a deep, unusually thorough satisfaction. He’d been amazing, had read her so well, picked up on every subtle cue just like he does in a scene... even after his attitude switched from sensual to coolly efficient. She’d been surprised by how quickly he’d made her come, but not surprised by the switch itself — she understood it, just as she understood why he’d run away — he wanted to change the rules. He wanted more than she’d been ready to give. And she’d hurt him.

_Look at me…_

The memory had filled her with stinging regret, soured her mood, broke the spell. She’d pulled herself together then, rolled off the couch onto still-shaky legs, showered, dressed. And during the drive home, as she left the oppressive city lights far behind, she got busy with her justifications again, reminding herself that if she _had_ looked at him when he’d asked her to, that would have been the end. Jig’s up. He’d have seen right through her the way he sees everything she doesn’t deliberately conceal from him, and then he’d have acted on what he saw by _not acting_ , by being himself — open, achingly vulnerable, _hers_ — and she knew she would have been unable to resist him, would have come out of hiding, too… and then they would have been making love. As themselves. And how could she pack her kids’ lunches after that? How could she cheer their soccer games and ferry them to the mall? How could she face her husband, knowing she’d fallen in love with another man?

The starkness of the revelation had hit her like an oncoming truck, made her clutch the wheel, slam on the brakes and lurch the car to the side of the road in a cloud of dust. And as  _that word_  worked its way through her stunned system, she gasped at how incredibly _obvious_  it was... yet how successfully she'd disguised the truth all these months in order to maintain her comfortable illusions. She'd called it by other names, safer names like _partnership,_   _connection..._ even _desire._ A simple, physical desire she could control — unless she played games, pushed boundaries, wanted him too much… 

Over the noise in her mind and the rush of passing cars, she noticed the trill of the cell phone in her purse and chastised herself harshly for not hearing the call before it went to voicemail — _what if it's an emergency, what if it's the kids_? As she quickly played the message, a chill crept over her. Oddly, it wasn’t a _bad_ feeling, like the earlier shock... rather, it was clean, like a window being thrown open on a dark, stale room, letting in light and air...

She listened to the message again, to the strange, forced quality in her husband's voice:

_Hey, it's me. The kids are at the sitter’s. My buddy_ _Brian called — you know, the guy whose wife left him. He's a wreck, so I'm at his place and I'm just gonna go ahead and stay overnight and keep an eye on him. Thanks for understanding. Love you._

She listened a third time, parsing the words, the tone, the ambient sounds, and as she sat in her car on the shoulder of that busy road, oncoming headlights sweeping her… she laughed out loud. 

Just how dumb did he think she was? There's no Brian. That excuse was bullshit, like so many others he'd used on her lately, all of which she'd just blithely accepted. How was it that she hadn’t noticed before…?

And facing that truth meant she had to face others — like how empty and numb she’d become... how he'd been slowly detaching from the family, yet she hadn't cared enough to confront him... how for months his touch has left her cold, and during their rare moments of intimacy she tended to slip into fantasies of a certain tall, hazel-eyed cast mate... 

She might have noticed all these signs much sooner, if not for her insistent, creative forms of denial, her endless string of compromises. And her husband might have gotten away with it this time, too… if not for the soft, barely detectable sound of a woman’s laughter in the background of his message…

She listened again just to be sure, recognized the laughter, and shoved the phone back into her purse.

_ Two Get-Out-of-Jail-Free cards my ass. _

The tires squealed and spit gravel as she pulled her car onto the road again. She knew she should be outraged, devastated… but all she felt as she hit the gas and headed toward the hills for a long drive into a night full of stars… was relief. 

And she had some decisions to make.

......

Confused, her heart lodged in her throat, she helplessly watches him wander around the set and pause in front of the wall of windows to nowhere. The floodlights on the other side softly illuminate his face as he gazes out, brow furrowing as though he’s searching a distant horizon. He turns to the counter and her chest tightens as his eyes dart toward her… but they don’t land. Instead he studies the yellow smiley mug, traces the curved mouth… suddenly inhales sharply and flips the mug upside down onto the counter with a dull thud.

She flinches at what feels like a very pointed, very personal rebuke, and takes a step toward him, longing to echo his plea from last night…

_Look at me…_

_Please look at me, please talk to me, hold me, let me tell you everything that’s happening, everything I’m feeling for you…_

But he turns away from her without so much as a glance.

# 

He’s way too raw and bruised to climb inside his character for these damn scenes today. He hates him a little, this Franco he’s created. No, he hates him a lot. It’s easier than hating himself.

He can feel the weight of her eyes following his every move. She’s raw too, radiating a need for him — a physical need of course, nothing more — and he can’t help but respond to her… so he doesn’t dare get any closer, can’t get drawn in, can’t go there again. That’s why he went for a long bike ride when he should have been with her in the Green Room, running lines, rehearsing touches and kisses and flirtatious, loving dialogue. Maybe they would have discussed what happened between them last night... maybe they would have torturously avoided the subject. Regardless, he'd have spent the morning struggling not to spill his guts to her. He's completely lost now, but admitting it would ruin everything. And saying the words out loud, with his daughter’s voice still ringing fresh in his ears, would have fucking killed him.

So he tries to ignore her, deflects her hungry, searching eyes as best he can… but she’s draped in red, her cheeks and lips are red — red as fire and passion, red as arousal — and the echoes of her shivers and sighs permeate his senses. He reins in his body’s ferocious, unwelcome reaction… slams the yellow mug on the counter to expend some frustrated energy, can't bring himself to look at her…

But as they begin taping, it’s all useless. There’s no distinction anymore between character and actor — Franco’s hands are _his_ hands, Franco’s mouth is _his_ mouth — and as he feels her, tastes her, as she responds to him with a subtle yet very real, very intimate  _yearning_ , it all goes too deep, spirals him back to that couch in her pristine dressing room, back to wet heat and profound hurt… 

_Look at me…_

He can’t breathe but he _has_ to breathe, has to be kind and gentle with her because none of this is her fault, has to wrench himself back into the scene, deliver his lines perfectly, get her out the door and end this…

And it works, it does, thank god — the script says Franco doesn’t want Liz around when his artwork is delivered, when he confronts his dark past, so he tells her in every possible way to leave... and since both he and Franco are conflicted, riddled with self-loathing and want the same thing, absolutely no acting is required...

And then she’s gone… mercifully gone. The scene continues after her departure and his lips still feel her, her scent lingers in the air as he vigorously shakes two cans of spray paint, presses the nozzles, inhales the sharp aerosol fumes deep into his lungs, longing for oblivion…

Because she’ll be back. After his Hamlet soliloquy… after he holds the diving helmet sculpture aloft like it’s Yorick’s skull and sincerely questions his worth… after his un-daughter comes and talks sense to him as he’s destroying his art. She’ll be back for a scene with heartfelt dialogue he wishes were true, a passionate kiss he’s desperate to take further, and he has no idea how the hell he’ll get through it all…

And like Hamlet, he’s frozen with doubt and indecision, has been since his daughter called to inform him that after he left for the airport the other day, Mom went and hung out with Mike from the theater group, _again_ … and he could hear the subtle plea in her small, musical voice to get his ass home fast and _fix this._ But how could he tell her that he knows all about Mike, and the guy before that, and the guy before that. He knows his wife is abusing their arrangement again and it hurts… but maybe not enough this time. Maybe not enough to fix it. 

_Maybe not even for you, Baby Girl…_

Because he’s got secrets of his own. 

So when he slices his thumb with the utility knife as he’s slashing Franco's painting, it isn’t deliberate, not consciously so, but the pain feels earned, well-deserved. He shakes his hand and watches crimson blood spatter the canvas — guilt as art, he thinks. Visual penance. 

Though redemption seems very far away.

**_To be continued…_ **


	20. Chapter 20

She watches his scenes from a discreet distance, careful to stay out of his line of sight, and marvels as always at his skill with a monologue. She’s angry with him for avoiding her, yet impressed by his use of props. Heartsick, yet making mental notes on his timing and technique. She’s a fan, always has been, always will be… even if he is being a stubborn jerk.

She’d given him a few signals in their previous scene… some of them inadvertent. She couldn’t keep her eyes off him, knew her body language conveyed real intimacy, but it worked for the characters — they’d been reunited after months apart, had just shared a night of passionate sex — so yes her eyes would be on his ass. Yes, she’d be satisfied, yet wanting more. There were enough parallels with reality that she felt she could let a bit of herself emerge… to get his attention, tell him he can’t hide forever, that this isn’t over. But he’d shut her right down, walled himself off as he ushered her out the door and out of the scene.

But she has things to say, and she’s going to say them. How he responds is up to him, she bravely tells herself… even as she knots her fingers together, chews her lip and feels vaguely sick to her stomach…

When he cuts himself with the utility knife, she gasps and begins to rush to him as she would to one of her children. But he’s got it, incorporates the injury into the scene… and it’s perfect. Brilliant. She drifts back again, looks for a place to sit and notices that the studio is packed — everyone has come to watch him, cast and crew alike — and they’re smiling, wagging their heads with the same admiration she feels. All but one. He scowls, runs a hand over his slick black hair, turns on his heel and walks away...

……

She stays for the next scene, too — Franco and Kiki — and smiles hugely at the easy rapport the two of them have built. He’s been kind to her from the moment she took over the role... mentoring her, dialing himself back until she could keep up and respond to him naturally… and now he can let loose, now they can play off one another… and it’s beautiful, it’s believable —

A stabbing pain wipes the smile from her face as she realizes that, of course it’s believable — he has a daughter in real life, and that everything he feels for _her_ —unconditional love, tenderness, playful affection — he’s drawing on for this scene. 

It hits her hard, makes her reel. If she tells him what she wants to tell him, what she’s been planning and rehearsing for hours, and if he reacts the way she hopes… lives will be turned upside down. Children’s lives. 

She pulls a sharp breath of stark reality, like she’s emerged from her long nighttime drive into the blazing heat of day. _Of course_ she clung to denial and comfortable illusions — there are kids to consider. And what the hell came over her that made her so ready and willing to trash their worlds? A schoolgirl crush… a powerful sexual experience… the fact that her husband is cheating and her pride is hurt? It’s not enough. She feels weak, feverish, and so disgusted with herself she wants to vanish. Once upon a time, her dressing room was a sanctuary from the drama of this place and she could seek refuge there, but no more. _He’s_ there now. The echo of what they did together is there, and the insanity it sparked in her. She’s drowning in a drama of her own making and now she’s the one with nowhere to hide…

Except wardrobe. Her heart races as she imagines it — sneaking to the back of the last aisle, sinking in among the silk and tulle gowns until she can get a grip on herself… or they call her for the next scene, whichever comes first…

When the director suddenly says her name, it seems to ring out over the set like an accusation, and she flinches. In a far corner she sees him wheel around in his dark shirt and tight jeans, scan the crowd until his eyes land on her. Someone is taping up his thumb. His damn _thumb_. He seems to have lost very little blood, but at the sight of her, he goes as pale as she feels. Still, her professionalism and muscle-memory propel her forward on numb legs… 

“We’re pressed for time,” the director tells her. “Ready to dive into the next scene?” 

“Of course,” she hears her sweet reply, although every cell in her body is telling her to delay. She can’t possibly say those words as written, she can’t possibly kiss him now…

But after a few notes from the director, a quick touch-up to her hair and make-up… she’s Elizabeth, in Franco’s studio, examining his slashed painting, looking up as he enters… 

#

He’s Franco, he tells himself. It’s a character, it’s a scene, it’s a job. _Just do your fucking job_.

He hadn’t known she’d been in the studio, watching him work. Why and for how long? What does it matter. _Do your fucking job_.

Where is Franco’s head? He’s just come from Ava’s, but they’re taping that later. He didn’t want Elizabeth to see his work, but here she is, fingering the canvas he wrecked, getting a glimpse of his worst self.

His worst self.

_When are you coming back, Dad? This weekend? You should, Daddy. Come back this weekend…_

_I’ll try, Sweetie…_

Maybe he will try. But more likely he won’t… 

_ Not even for you, Baby Girl… _

Not until he’s sorted things out.

He drags himself out of his blistering guilt and back to the scene they're taping. This was all so easy and comfortable once — they’d been partners, had built an effortless rapport, a silent language. She’d give him everything he needed, and he tried to give it right back. But now it hurts to even look at her. Looking means wanting, wanting means touching, touching means…

_DO YOUR FUCKING JOB…_

He drags himself back again, says his lines, reacts to hers… and it suddenly dawns on him that she’s fighting, just like he is. Something has changed since their earlier scene, when her energy seemed to pursue him, laser-focused and demanding. Now she’s resisting him — not on the surface where Elizabeth is warm and concerned, but beneath — a fierce defiance that’s all _her_ …

And it’s like a knife in the gut to be so alienated from her, to be expelled. But it’s his own fault — he ran away last night, has not only avoided but practically punished her ever since, has given her nothing… and this is the cost. 

He turns his back on her for few moments to put the canvas away, is glad for the chance to regroup… but he knows what’s ahead. Heleans against the counter, scratches his ribs to give himself a bit of business to focus on, tries to be Franco and not feel too deeply as he talks about growing and evolving for Elizabeth, for the boys…

“...For our future,” he says.

_Our future_ … 

The moment the words are out of his mouth, he feels in his bones the truth of them. That’s exactly what he wants — a future with her — and it’s far too real a thing to say in this place, surrounded by lights and cameras, with her standing before him draped in red, a beautiful blush in her cheeks and someone else’s words in her mouth…

“Then do it,” she says.

“Just like that.”

“Yeah, just like that.”

He swallows hard… 

_Do your fucking job…_

But maybe the conversation could go this way in real life. Maybe she’d be willing to discuss it, at least. And maybe one day they could leave everything behind, be together, _just like that_ … if only he had the courage to be honest with her…

Tears burn his eyes. “I’m a little scared,” he says, voice breaking, but it’s okay. It works for the scene. 

“Of what?”

“I don’t want to lose you.”  The words tumble out, choking him. Killing him a little. Because he means every one. 

Her eyes nail him then, drive deep, her blush reddening as she searches him. He balks, feels exposed, and tries to hide inside Franco again, delivering lines he’s barely aware of… until she says,

“Your past is your past. And your future is ours.”

It’s a writer’s line, delivered in Elizabeth’s voice… but he’s not sure who’s really talking. He needs to believe it’s her, that she’s revealing something of herself, of her own desires, just as he had… and he notices that her hand is trembling as she takes his, that her body is warm and yielding as she moves into his arms. The gray eyes that look up at him are tender, filled with tears… her lips are soft, her kiss real. He hadn’t known how he would get through this, but now he does — by surrendering to it, whatever it means, wherever it leads. He stops fighting and kisses her with everything he’s feeling, every ounce of hope and love, lips parting, passion growing as he grips her head… and she returns the kiss, the passion, the hope, laying her body against his… and in the fever he forgets himself, turns her to the counter, presses into her…

“Okay, cut. Great emotion, guys, thanks.”

They freeze, breathe each other’s breath for a few moments, foreheads touching, hearts pounding into one another. Perfectly, utterly connected. And then they part and awkwardly study the floor as the hair and make-up people swoop in and do their thing…

“Pick it up where she’s buttoning his shirt,” the director tells the crew. “And we’ll take it just past the phone call to the first reveal of the twin painting. Good?”

They both nod, find their marks... and do their jobs.

**_##_ **

She disappeared from the set after taping with barely a word, and he doesn’t know what the hell to think. He still feels her hands on his chest and stomach, sees her joyous smile — something he’s never known her to fake…

“Say it again.”

He blinks, looks at the blonde sitting across the table from him in the Green Room. “Aren't you Ava? Ava would get it.”

“What’s the name again?” she says.

“Schiele. Egon Schiele. You open the door with your scars and that Phantom of the Opera mask and I say, _Egon Schiele would have a field day_.” 

She sips at her mug of coffee, shakes her head. “Too obscure.” 

“Well… it’s vintage Franco,” he grunts, knowing after all these years that he's allowed to be bristly and defensive with her... to a point. “Like I said, Ava would get it.”

She leans forward, pins him with a kind, steady gaze. “Darling… what the hell are you doing?” 

“It’s called improvising,” he says, and is suddenly crushed by memories...

_X-rated improv... We’ll be them… I'm waiting for you in your hotel room, you come in, you find me, and... _go!__

She brings him back to the Green Room with a dip of her chin, and arches an elegant brow at him. It's a signal, he well knows, the she’s in no mood to take any shit. “I mean, with your leading lady.”

He slumps back in his chair, flicks his finger at a bag of pretzels on the table, watches it spin. “It’s called _improvising_ ,” he repeats… and adds more gruffly, “Why, what did you hear?” 

“Far too much,” she says. “I thought you learned your lesson back in the good old, bad old days.” 

He winces, rolls his shoulders to banish ghosts. “Look… that was different. It was one night, I was drunk, she was drunk. It didn’t mean anything.”

“It did to her.” 

He sighs, clears his throat, but tastes the ever-present regret. “I know. I handled that… badly. But no worries — the universe is paying me back. This time the pain is mine all mine.”

“So…," she says, face clouding. "What they're saying... it is true then.” 

He scowls, flicks at the bag of pretzels to keep it spinning. “Kind of true. Not much has happened. Yet. Not really.”

“But you want it to.” 

“I did. I do. I don’t know.” 

She purses her lips, drums her black fingernails on the table… and after several beats, she pulls a sharp breath. “Well, given their pact, it's probably a good idea for you to keep your distance.”

“Pact? What _pact_?”

She rolls her eyes. “Honestly, are you really this out of the loop?”

He cocks his head at her. “Hello? Been in New York...”

“Well, hush up then and listen.” She crosses her arms on the table, leans in conspiratorially and lowers her voice. “Apparently, she and her husband made some kind of deal where they’re each permitted a certain number of affairs. He’s run through his, and now she’s looking for—,”

“—Whoa, hell no! Stop it!” he barks and jerks away like he’s been kicked. “No way. That doesn’t sound like her at all.”

She shrugs, leans back again. “I don’t know her that well, but people talk.”

“You don’t have to listen,” he says, blood boiling. “And you don’t have to repeat it. That shit is poison.”

She touches the back of his fisted hand, catches his eyes with a sad, affectionate smile. “We go back a long way, dear heart. I’m just watching out for you.”

He blows out a blast of angry air, gives her a quick nod to let her know he doesn’t blame her… but her words ricochet around in his mind, doing damage that he's not quite quick enough to repair… 

Ridiculous. No way. And yet…

“How many affairs,” he mutters, not believing it, but best to know what's circulating...

“The number varies. No fewer than two, no more than six.”

“Fuck.” He grinds his elbows into the table and drops his chin between his fists. Any other day, he would dismiss this bullshit out of hand, but she's been so erratic, so _confusing_ since he got back...

“No. Uh-uh," he grunts. "No way.”

“You would know best,” she says.

“Yeah, I would.” He sounds vehement, even as he fights back the terrible notion that he might know nothing at all. He hears her swallow another sip of coffee, looks up to find her watching him over the rim. 

“You know who’s behind it, don’t you?” she says.

He sighs heavily. “Which _it_.”

“The rumors about you two. They aren’t new.”

He quirks a brow, suddenly glad that she’s always got her ear to the ground… and that she’s on his side.

“A certain slick-haired, self-styled King of the Castle,” she says.

He does a quick mental scan, zeroes in on who she must mean. “Wait, what? _Why_?”

She nods meaningfully. “He’s terrified of you. Always has been.”

“The hell did _I_ do?” he snaps. Like he needs this shit, with all the other turmoil in his life. 

“Nothing in particular, everything in general. And he’s been on the warpath ever since he found out you were coming back.”

He works his jaw as the pressure, frustration and disappointment of the last two days crests. He grabs the bag of pretzels, imagines it’s the face of a certain malicious, pint-sized, washed-up actor, and hurls it against the wall with a snarl and an utterly unsatisfying smack. 

"I know. Here's hoping he'll get his someday." She taps the script in front of her. "Let's get back to this, shall we?"

He sighs, runs his hands through his hair and tries to remember why the hell he ever wanted to come back here in the first place.

_** To be continued... ** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scenes referenced in this chapter are from the Franco and Elizabeth: A Love Story playlist (243-247):  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kbzEJSpABog  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vJk7q4Tq1V0&t=8s  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mYAmY4Rdys0&t=53s  
> And most importantly:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C4XhLhAcKX4&t=13s
> 
> A million thanks to SoapTweetsGH for posting these clips!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I give up, I had to start using names — all the he's, him's and his's in this chapter got unwieldy — but I figure we're deep enough into the story that everyone reading this knows who's who. However, now I feel it's necessary to post a DISCLAIMER: This is FICTION! The names may be real, but the tale herein is not. I repeat, this is a fictitious story, a flight of fancy. It is pretend, made up, with no basis in fact. It is as fictitiously fictiony as fiction can get, so please don't anyone sue me. I'm just a starving artist and you'll get nothing for your trouble. Thank you for your kind attention :-)
> 
> Let's begin...

###

 

Roger steps into the hallway, closes his dressing room door behind him and hoists the pack containing his biking gear onto his shoulder… taking care not to hit his thumb and start it bleeding again before he can get to the clinic. This has been one hell of a miserable day. He’s an emotional wreck, he heard things he’s trying to put out of his head, he continued avoiding Becky and felt like a jerk the entire time… but at least the Franco and Ava scene went well. He got his Egon Schiele line in there — the director’s wife is an art collector so he recognized the reference...

“Nice move with the blade earlier. Good save.”

He instantly recognizes the voice, turns to find the King of the Castle himself, regarding him with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, slick black hair glinting like eel skin under the hallway lights.

_You know who’s behind it, don’t you…_ _the rumors about you two…_

He’s instantly on guard, feels his mouth twitch with distaste… but he wills himself to relax. The man has never been anything but cordial to him, has never harmed or badmouthed anyone within his hearing. Best to take his own advice and not give credence to rumors, no matter how reliable the source. Still, he decides to keep it brief, not engage. 

“Yeah, thanks,” he says, holding up the bandaged thumb and waggling it as he turns away. “Just found out I need stitches. I’m outta here till Monday. Later, man.”

“Safe flight… _man_.”

Roger halts mid-step at the odd inflection and glances back. Mo looks harmless enough, standing with his hands on his hips, studying the wall.  He’s about to continue on his way when he hears:

“Hope you don’t hit any turbulence.”

An innocuous statement on the face of it, but the tone drips with casual malice. Roger turns toward him fully, watches and waits, giving him the opportunity to keep talking or walk away. Mo stays put, not making eye contact, just sucking his teeth, letting the words hang in the air. Finally Roger walks up, stops an arm’s length away. The tension blazes like a force field between them… and in that instant he realizes that everything he's been told about this man is true.

He stifles a flare of anger and simply nods like they’re old buddies. “Appreciate that,” he says, senses on high alert.

“Must have been nice,” Mo drawls, widening his stance. “Summer with the family, chance to relax, take some time. Remember your place in the world…”

Roger feels his jaw tighten, consciously loosens it and repeats benignly, “My… place.”

“Sure. We all have a place. New York, LA,” Mo says, gesturing lazily between them. “We work hard, we build something. It’s important to protect it, right?” He looks directly at Roger for the first time. “Like your family.”

He lets his jaw stay tight this time, but telegraphs nothing. “My family.”

Mo shrugs, rubs his chin. “Different coasts, different time zones… you know. It’s good to go home every weekend, maybe longer… not get too planted out here. Not get, you know… _distracted_.”

Roger waits for it.

“Again.”

Roger exhales the breath he’s been holding and steps close, stands ramrod straight to emphasize his height advantage. “I… _appreciate_ … your… concern,” he says evenly, voice pitched low, just a tinge of gravel, a hint of warning.

Mo stretches his neck, gives him a thin laugh and a phony smile.

“It’s a small world and it’s not gettin’ any bigger, is all I’m saying. We each gotta protect our own little corner of it.” He deepens the smile until his dimples show, and slaps Roger companionably on the shoulder. “You understand me. Now go on, get outta here and get that thumb fixed. Don’t want things fallin’ off.” He chuckles deeply as he turns and saunters away down the hall.

Seething, Roger watches him until he’s out of sight, repositions his pack and heads off in the opposite direction. 

“Yeah, good talk,” he growls. “Kiss my ass, king of the fucking castle.” 

**_To be continued…_ **


	22. Chapter 22

Roger is slumped on the couch in his hotel room, bare feet up on the coffee table, a nearly empty can of beer balanced on his thigh. A muted soccer game is on the huge-screen TV, colorful bodies surging from one end of the field to the other and back again, but he’s not really watching… he’s reviewing. Sometimes speculating. Mostly brooding.

Problem is, he’s not a brooder. He knows people who have turned it into an art form, and on them it’s a glorious thing to behold, but he’s just no good at it; it upsets his internal ecosystem. He prefers being happy, and can’t seem to sink all the way into the brooder's requisite black hole because he keeps second-guessing himself. Like yesterday — all that paranoia was probably the result of jet lag... and because he was in a pissy mood, he probably overreacted to what was simply a friendly offer of advice on Mo’s part…

_ It’s good to go home every weekend, maybe longer… not get too planted out here. Not get, you know… distracted_ ...

Hell, who’s he kidding… he’s a New Yorker. He knows a schmuck when he sees one...

It’s a gorgeous LA Thursday, not quite noon. He should change out of his t-shirt and sweats, put on his gear and go for a long ride to clear his head. But it’s always gorgeous in LA, so instead he drains the beer, tosses the can onto the table along with the other two empties. It tips, rolls off and lands noiselessly on the carpet. He watches long enough to make sure it’s not dripping, then folds his arms behind his head, interlaces his fingers and stares at the ceiling.

It’s not too late to head back to the city. He’s already booked and cancelled two flights, could easily book a third, pack a bag, get a Lyft to LAX. Nothing’s happened on either coast in these three days that can’t be undone.

Except that his wife is sleeping with a short, off-Broadway playwright. 

And he himself just initiated a sexual relationship with a coworker.

He groans, squeezes his eyes shut and lets memories of Becky play at the edges of his mind, dismissing them before they can reach his body. But sensory hallucinations have been appearing at odd times anyway — eating a fork full of scrambled eggs this morning, he felt her thigh on his cheek. Brushing his hair, he tasted her tongue in his mouth. Dozing off last night, he heard her soft laughter… so real he sat up, switched on the lamp and said her name, gut twisting when he realized she wasn’t there. Would never be there. 

Because of The Pact.

It’s become a proper noun in his mind, capitalized, complete with an article... like The Shining. And he’s driving himself bat-shit crazy, just like that guy. He’s created a whole narrative around The Pact — the inciting incident, snappy dialogue, rising action, love scenes. Too many love scenes, each more explicit and perverted than the last… featuring Becky and guys from the cast, the crew, the cast AND the crew, those twins from the vegetarian food truck outside who look like Tom Holland…

This is what’s making him broody, but he can’t help himself. The idea that he was poised to be just one of many affairs so she could keep up with her husband... or maybe out of boredom, or sexual exploration, or revenge. Whatever. It's the idea that she would use him so casually without telling him, without giving him the option... the idea that she cared so little about him...

He didn't want to believe it of her, but looking back, there have been subtle clues along the way. And once he acknowledged that, The Pact went from rumor to cold, hard truth in his mind, infecting him like a virus, and now he can't think of anything else...

He leans over and whacks his bandaged thumb against the table, making the stitches shriek. It's just what he needs to get him out of his head... and his heart.

_When are you coming back, Dad? This weekend? You should, Daddy. Come back this weekend…_

Yeah, fuck it, there’s nothing for him here. He’ll go home, see if he can get his marriage back on track. God help him, maybe Mo is right — he needs to  protect his own little corner of the world, while he still can.

 

He didn't know that twenty or so hours earlier, Becky had been getting an earful from Pam...

 

The two of them had been on their way to wardrobe when they turned a corner and saw Roger and Mo at the other end of the hallway. Becky’s heart had both leapt and sank at the sight of him, as it had done all day. She squared her shoulders, deciding to confront him head on, but Pam grabbed her arm with a whispered, "Hoo boy," and pulled her into an open doorway. Pam stuck her head out just enough to watch the men… so Becky did the same. She couldn’t hear the conversation, but she could read the body language loud and clear: two bulls facing off. Mo was doing most of the talking… and Roger didn’t appear to like what he was saying. At all. She held her breath as she watched his hands curl into fists… and uncurl again. He was working hard to control himself — she’d become familiar with his power of restraint lately — and after a few tense moments, the confrontation ended without incident, as she assumed it would... this being a soap set, not a dive bar.

Still, it left her rattled. “What do you think that was about?” she asked Pam when they resumed their trip to wardrobe.

“Wow, I guess Roger finally had enough,” she replied, sounding impressed.

“Enough of what?” Becky said, increasing her pace to match Pam’s long stride.

“Of being deliberately undermined. Or maybe enough of those nasty rumors about you two.”

Becky stopped dead and grabbed her wrist. “What _nasty rumors_.”

Pam’s face flushed almost as red as her hair. “Hoo boy. Roger said he was gonna tell you. Didn’t he tell you?”

“You tell me. Now.”

#

Roger booked an 11:15 flight that would get him into Newark a little after 7 tomorrow morning, New York time; the same flight he’d already cancelled twice, but this time he’s resolved. His cell phone is in his hand, finger scrolling through the list of favorite contacts. He pauses at his wife’s name, scrolls past and stops on his daughter’s instead. He’s about to press _call_ when he hears a sharp knock on the door.   He hasn’t let anyone in to clean yet, assumes it’s housekeeping and wanders over, eyes still on his screen, and pulls the door open.

“How could you not have _told_ me?”

He looks up to find Becky, her hair piled on her head in a loose bun, acres of white skin practically shimmering in contrast to a long black sundress with thin straps. She’s glowering at him, chin tucked, eyes flashing.

For many reasons he’s too stunned to speak, stammers, “I… I…,” a few times as she storms past him into the room and tosses her purse on a chair. She’s as angry as he’s ever seen her in real life.

“I had to hear it from _Pam_? _Really_?”

He quickly puts two and two together, closes the door and keeps his hand on the knob, a defensive reflex. 

“I didn’t want to upset you,” he says calmly. “I can deal with it.” 

“It’s not your job to _deal with it_!” she shouts, stabbing a finger at him. “I’ve known these people a hell of a lot longer than you have and I know how to handle them. I don’t need you fighting my battles!” 

“It’s not just _your_ battle,” he says, hackles rising. “I don’t think it’s even primarily _about_ you.”

“Of course it’s about me! It’s about both of us!”

“Look,” he says and pauses, knocked off balance by her rage. He doesn’t mind being its target as much as he hates being its cause. He speaks soothingly, tries a different tack. “Look… you take care of everyone, you’ve supported your family forever… why not let someone else have your back for a change?” 

She huffs, chews her cheek, seems to soften a bit… and he lets go of the doorknob and takes a step toward her. 

“It’s not your call,” she says, still heated. “You can’t just ride to my rescue without consulting me. It’s patronizing, do you see that? It tells me that you think I’m weak and… and _incompetent_.”

He takes another step toward her, hands out in the universal gesture of _I mean you no harm_. “That’s the _last_ thing I see you as. You’re remarkably strong, amazingly competent, but you’re also…," he pauses, searching. "Fragile’s not the word. Delicate, maybe… I’m thinking of spun glass. Miraculous, intricate. I know — dainty!”

“ _Dainty_?!” she cries.

“—Okay no, not dainty—,” 

“—Why not just say _feeble_?”

He drops his hands and slumps, admitting defeat. “You know what I mean. You’re… I don’t know, you’re good and translucent and incredibly kind — usually — and you have this ethereal quality, and I just instinctively want to protect you and take care of you. Keep you safe. I'm sorry, I didn’t realize that was a problem for you. I thought you liked it when I protected you.”

“Sometimes… like on set, but—,”

“—Well you’ll have to give me an itemized list then because this is confusing,” he snaps, winces, pivots left, right and tilts his head toward her in silent apology. She receives the message and grudgingly nods.

“The point,” she says. “Is that I’m not a child.”

“Trust me." His gaze drifts over the sculpted beauty standing before him. “I don’t see you as child.”

Their eyes meet, grow warm... but she's not finished and takes a deep breath.

“So you were  _protecting_ me when you came to my dressing room the other day, knowing the kind of gossip that was swirling around out there, knowing people were keeping an eye on us, maybe looking for ammunition... and you might have given it to them. Anybody could have seen you sneaking around—,”

“—I wasn’t sneaking,” he says, feeling ambushed, but knowing full well she’s right.

“You were! I saw the way you were, all furtive and guilty—,”

“—Furtive?”

“Furtive!”

He makes a low, frustrated sound, steps back and jams his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants as if to signal a time out. Her anger is like a blizzard on a summer day, and he's not dressed for it, is completely ill-equipped. They’re silent for a long time, and not once does she take her eyes off him, making him feel probed ...

“You knew that if you told me about the gossip, I wouldn’t let you stay,” she says quietly. “Didn’t you.”

“No!” he blurts out, offended… but it’s a fair question. He tries to think back to what was going on in his head, in his body…

“I don’t know,” he says. “Yeah, okay, maybe a little…,”

“Which is it?”

“Look, _good things_ were happening between us," he half laughs, wanting her to join him in the memory. "And okay, it probably did occur to me that if you knew, you might put a stop to that. So yes. It was selfish, but I did have other reasons, too. I meant what I said — I didn’t want you upset. Like this. Like now. I hate when you’re upset.”

“But that’s not up to you!” she cries. “It is not your job to… to be the gatekeeper of my emotional life! You don’t get to only let through those things you approve of. And I’m not upset about the rumors as much as the fact that you lied to me!” 

“I didn’t _lie_ to you.”

“Lie of omission.”

“Okay. Whatever. Okay.” He bites down hard on his teeth and turns stiffly away from her to watch a mass of figures tumble silently across the TV screen. Maybe there’s truth to what she’s saying, maybe he oversteps… but he resolved to keep her safe from harm of any kind. It’s a hard role to relinquish. But if that's what she wants... 

“Okay. I hear you,” he mutters.

“Do you? You sure?”

“Yeah yeah. You don’t need me protecting you. Boy, do I get it. Did I say spun glass? More like a little fluffy kitten, with very sharp retractable claws.”

“Don’t you forget it, mister,” she says after a few long beats, her tone lighter, almost teasing. He glances at her and quickly away; he’s not quite ready to stop sulking, and she’s got a killer little smile on her face.  Still, he watches from the corner of his eye as she relaxes with a hummed sigh and looks around the room for the first time. She flows past him, picks up the beer can from the floor, sets it on the coffee table like a mom tidying up, and eyes the three empties. “It’s the middle of the day. Something on your mind?” 

He has absolutely no plans to tell her. “What’s soccer without beer,” he says. 

“Okaay.”

He’s been sinking into bad-brooder mode, silently arguing with himself about whether he should challenge anything she said, how much is true, how much is him trying to justify himself. He wishes he hadn’t had that third beer; he’s muddled and it's tough keeping up with her. And she’s much too beautiful today. He can’t help wondering if it’s deliberate, if there’s more to her visit than she’s saying… 

She seems to know something’s up — of course she does — and she's watching him patiently, one brow arched, until he can’t stand it. 

“Fuck gossip-mongers,” he says firmly to the TV. “Fuck petty little tyrants. Fuck emotions. And fuck Pam.” 

“Rumors and tyrants, yes," she says from behind him. "Emotions maybe, depending on which ones. But not Pam. You don’t get to blame her for your poor judgement. She’s a good friend; she’s watching out for us.” 

“Us.” He kicks at the floor, says with a hollow laugh, “There’s an _us_?”

It's a serious question, and he's hoping her answer will give him a glimpse into her mind, some clarity... maybe even some hope. But she's silent. He looks around to find her staring out the window at the vast expanse of Los Angeles baking under the September sun. She’s quiet for so long he starts to get anxious, is about to blurt out random comments just to fill the heavy air...

“There was an us,” she finally says. “It was so special and rare. I loved us. I really did.” 

“ _Was. Did._ That’s a lot of past tense,” he says, mouth dry, heart in his throat.

She continues looking out the window, midday light bathing her face. “What you did... it was a betrayal.” So simply stated, voice smooth as silk.

His mouth drops open, but he’s struck dumb.

She turns to face him. “You came to my dressing room, and we… did what we did, but you deliberately withheld crucial information from me, because you were afraid that if you shared it, you might not get what you came for… which was sex.”

He instantly finds his voice. “No, that’s not fair!” he cries. “It’s not true! Not completely true. We _both_ —,”

“—No, I _trusted_ you,” she shouts back, escalating quickly. “More than anyone! I thought I meant more to you than just a—,”

“—You _DO,_   _of course you do_! I—,”

“—Then why did you lie? Why—,”

“—I didn’t lie, I just—,”

“—And over _sex_ ,” she says, spitting the word. “What is it about men and sex.” She looks directly at him and shakes her head as though the concept, and maybe he himself, disgusts her. “I thought you were better than that… more evolved. It’s so hurtful. It's so incredibly disappointing.”

He's overcome by a blast of righteous indignation. _Oh no, don’t do it,_ he tells himself, _don’t go there_ , but she’s looking at him with so much disdain, and she’s so blind to her own hypocrisy that he can’t help it.

“You’re lecturing _me_ about sex and honesty and trust?” he says.

She’s taken aback. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you were all for it. You wanted it just as much as I did."

“Maybe that's true," she says, color rising in her cheeks. "But the difference is I would never _deceive_ you to get it.”

“Are you _kidding me_? What about your little _pact_?”

“My... my  _what_?” she says. 

He curses himself, hadn't meant to let that slip, had meant to swing only at the pitches she threw... but that last bit of bullshit was just too much to take. He's about to lash out, but she looks so genuinely confused he manages to get a grip on himself, rakes a hand through his hair and shakes his head clear. “Nothing. Never mind. Forget it.”

“No no no, what pact. What are you talking about?”

He exhales loudly, takes her arm and guides her to the door. One of them needs to leave before this gets nasty. “Look, it’s probably not a good idea for you to be alone with me in my hotel room, given all the chatter, so—,”

She pulls her arm away. “Well, I am here, so please don’t change the subject.” 

He looks down at her, so small and breakable. She doesn't want his protection... so why is he still protecting her? 

“Is that the only reason you’re here," he says. "To yell at me? You could have waited 'til Monday.”

“Why else…?” There's a wariness in her voice, a hint of alarm in her eyes, like she knows what's coming.

He bites down on words, ugly words that carry an ugly accusation… but it's time to get it out in the open, not keep it cooped up inside, torturing his psyche...

“If you do have something else in mind,” he says evenly. “You should know that I’m not interested in being part of that deal you made with your husband.”

All color drains from her face until she’s ghostly. He immediately regrets the words. Then he doesn’t.

“Thanks anyway, though. I’m flattered. Really,” he says. “Hope I was near the top of the list.” 

She stands there, stunned and blinking, jaw working like she’s swallowing down nausea... but she's not denying it. He simply waits, arms folded over his chest in rock-hard judgement of her. 

“How did you—,” she stops, clears her throat… then sags and steeples her hands in front of her mouth. “Of course,” she whispers, nodding, tears gathering. “No secrets in that place. It’s all fair game.”

“Like the men, it would seem.”

She raises stung eyes to him. “That's what you think of me?" she says, thin as a dried leaf. " _You?_ ” 

“So sorry to… _disappoint_ you.”

There have been very few times in his life when he’s been deliberately cruel, when he’s enjoyed inflicting pain… and he now knows why. No sooner are the snide words out of his mouth than he’s lacerated by remorse, shocked by the depths his frustration and jealousy have driven him to. He longs to take it all back, apologize, reach out… but his pride is wounded… and she's not refuting any of it. 

Pride. Stupid, stupid fucking pride.

“It’s true, isn’t it,” he says, only a degree more gently.

She barks a hollow laugh. “You attack me like that without even knowing if it’s _true_?” She surges up into his face, so close he can see his reflection in her eyes. “What’s _true_ is that it’s painful, and it’s complicated and it’s none of your fucking business!”

Her intensity rocks him, but only for an instant. “It sure as hell _is_ my business, if you were trying to use me to check some box on your marital scorecard!”

“Wow,” she says, all glaring rage now. “I never knew you were such an insecure, self-centered _bastard_.”

“I guess there’s a lot we didn’t know about each other. How many boxes have you checked, by the way? Since we didn’t fuck, does it count?”

The question seems to ring in the air. It occurs to him that Elizabeth would slug him for that... but Becky simply looks gutted. She stares at him as though searching for a trace of the man she thought she knew, finally releases a shuddering sigh and seems to deflate, all spirit gone.

And with that spirit go all the hateful emotions that were animating him. The sight of her breaks him, and he's left empty, staggering under the weight of words echoing in the room, words spoken in his voice... but he couldn’t have said them. A character said them in an improvised scene. That wasn’t him. It couldn’t have been.

“Becky—,” he says, voice catching.

“—No.” She holds up a small, trembling hand, reaches with the other for her bag on the chair… but he gets there first. He snatches it and holds it away from her.

She looks at him with dull eyes and says in an even duller voice, “Really?” 

“Really,” he says, stifling a sob. “I’ve never spoken to anyone like that in my life, let alone someone I love.”

“That’s not love,” she whispers, eyes so dead. "You don't love me."

He gapes at her; that simple negation hurts more than almost anything else... and shatters his last defenses...

“I do, my God... I _do_. And it’s fucking me up because I’m not _allowed_ to, I know that!' he cries, the floodgates opening. "I’m not allowed to feel it or say it or express it in any way but through Franco, through _Franco_ , through this fictional  _character_ , and it all… it got all twisted up, the pressure and guilt and and frustration… because _you_ , I know you don’t feel it back, and there’s spouses and kids and rumors, and then there’s _fucking Mo_ in my face, and the idea that you were only using me, Becky… it just… it all fermented in here, it all, you know… _fermented_ , and it just exploded in this hideous geyser of shit, none of which I meant, of course — I didn’t mean a word of it, I mean how could I? And I have to shut up now, because fuck… just what the fuck am I even… never mind. Sorry. I’m so incredibly sorry. Here.” He shoves the bag at her. “Here, take your purse. Don’t hate me. Just take it and leave so I can go kill myself.” 

He’s quaking with adrenaline, bouncing off the walls, has no idea what he said, just that he opened a vein and truth came pouring out… and that now he feels both lighter than he has in months… and mortified.

He cautiously looks at her for a reaction… but her eyes are glued to the TV.

“Umm… Becky…?”

“Hmm?” she says, dragging her gaze to him. “Sorry, I was distracted. You say something?” 

A cold wind blows through him and he ceases to exist… but it’s only temporary. “Good one,” he murmurs, scratching his forehead weakly with his bandaged hand, feeling like he might pass out. “That’s… that’s a good one.”

Her smile is much kinder than he deserves. “You okay? That was a lot of words.”

He nods, feeling a bit disembodied, lurches to the couch and collapses, dropping her purse beside him.

She hesitates, but comes and sits down, too... not close, but not far away.

"You're kind of an asshole," she says, her tone open to interpretation.

"Yeah, I kind of am."

She sighs. "So, can we talk like grown-ups now? Honestly?"

“That would be good.” Her hand is resting between them; he needs to touch her, but resists... and as they sit together in silence, he feels some of his old spark returning. "Hey, you know what we remind me of?” he says.

“A squabbling married couple?”

“Exactly.”

_** To be continued... ** _

 


	23. Chapter 23

 

Love.

That word from his lips. It thrills her, terrifies her, makes her doubtful, sweaty, giddy, angry…

When she turned to the TV as he was confessing a moment ago, she’d only been half-kidding. In truth, panic had begun clawing at her and she needed to deflect… 

_You don't love me…_

_I do, my God... I do…_

She’s seen a glimmer of it in his eyes, has felt a hint of it in his kiss. On some level she’s known, but as long as he didn’t say it out loud, she could tell herself he was just caught up in the moment/turned on/jet-lagged. And he still hasn’t said it… not really. He channeled Franco, dumped an overwhelming amount of pain and confusing verbiage at her feet, and now she’s left to sort through it all, check for damage and anything resembling truth, decide how to proceed…

That will all take time, but she stupidly volunteered to _talk_. She’d been ready to do just that in the Green Room yesterday, before he stood her up, before she was vividly reminded of what a loving father he is. And that he’s _married_. She’d been about to throw herself at a married man, a married man with _children_ … 

And how would that make her any better than her own husband’s home-wrecking whore—

Becky catches the poisonous rage in mid-flare, douses it, breathes to get centered… but she has to admit that she’s not in control of herself. The confrontation with Michael last night went beyond ugly, and she’s still far too raw and hurt for a rational discussion of any kind, let alone one that could determine the future. She should never have come here. What Roger said was true — she could have waited until Monday to yell at him, but she wanted to see him… in his hotel room… for reasons far from innocent. He was quite right about that…

She’s half on her feet before she even realizes it. “I should go,” she says, a gutted whisper…

“Wait, what? No!” Roger cries. “What about talking? You can’t just leave me hanging…”

He sounds so distraught she settles back again, straightens her spine, folds her hands quietly in her lap with a simmering irritation…

“Okay,” he sighs, relaxes out of a pounce position. “Thank you.”

“I do need some time to gather my thoughts,” she says.

“More time? Okay, fine,” he says. “Just don’t leave.” 

She nods, inhales slowly, smells stale beer, exhales again. The sun through the window is warm on her bare shoulders and she closes her eyes, tries to relax… 

But he’s radiating tension beside her, eyes fixed on the colorful scrum of bodies on the TV screen. His knee is pistoning, shaking the entire couch until she reaches over, taps his thigh and he stops, grunts an apology, picks up the long, thin strap of her purse on the other side of him and starts playing with it. He’s adorable and vulnerable, available to her in every way if she just said the word… 

Or maybe not…

_You should know that I’m not interested in being part of that deal you made with your husband..._

His unbidden words stab her mind, make her gut churn. To think that her private life, her shameful deal with Michael were paraded through that place… the subject of gossip and speculation… and that Roger  _knew_. How long has he known, how long has he been questioning her motives… how long has he been  _hurting_ …

She starts to ask, but remembers his tone, dripping with contempt—

_How many boxes have you checked, by the way? Since we didn’t fuck, does it count..._

The coldness of it floods her again. She didn’t know he had that in him… and apparently neither did he. His remorse was immediate, palpable. It’s easy for her to forgive harsh words — she’s got three kids after all, she knows that people say things they don’t mean in the heat of the moment... both good and bad. Yet in the space of a breath, he had essentially called her a slut, and confessed to a love for her that’s been torturing him. 

Yes, there’s a lot to sort through and consider before she says or does something she might regret…

#

Roger is feeling like a partially dissected frog whose heart is still beating… and he’s hideously awake for the procedure. He just spilled his guts, and Becky's composure is driving him crazy; she’s perched on the couch to his left and he’s watching her from the corner of his eye, is hyper-aware of her every movement, blink and sigh. There’d been a time he could read her like an open book, but those days are long gone, and she's as opaque to him now as a mannequin. He knows there’s a tempest raging inside her, just as there is in him — there  _has_  to be — and he’s dying for her to show it to him, share it with him, yell at him again… anything but leave. Finally, he can’t stand this _nothing_ for another second...

“Can I get you, uh…,” he says, gesturing toward the empty beer cans, just to end the silence.

She frowns, shakes her head.

He stiffens. Was that disgust on her face…? Of course, she doesn’t drink beer. Stupid…

“Water? No, tea,” he quickly suggests. “Or there’s the mini-bar…?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” she says, so gracious, so detached… but at least her voice works. He realizes he’s been playing with the strap of her purse, has it wrapped painfully around his bandaged left hand…

“So Beck…,” he begins, trails off.

“Just a second, okay?” she says like a lullaby.

“Okay,” he grunts, moves the strap to his forearm, wraps, pulls tight. “But if you have any questions, comments…,”

“I know where to find you.”

“Okay. Great. Good,” he grunts to himself. “I’ll be right here. Not going anywhere…”

At least not until 9:30, when his car to the airport is due… 

#

Becky sighs heavily and just gives up, like when she’s trying to read a script in a roomful of rambunctious kids. She metaphorically closes the script, lays it on the coffee table and turns to him. She’ll just have to improvise and hope for the best…

“Hi,” she says.

His face collapses wth relief. “Hi. So… we’re ready to talk now?”

She braces herself, resists the urge to smooth back the hair falling stubbornly over his forehead. “We should.”

He grits his teeth so loudly she hears it. “We don’t have to,” he says. “But it _was_ your idea…”

“No. No, we should. Let’s start small. And no sniping.”

“No. Absolutely no sniping. No accusations or snide remarks of any kind.”

“Okay. Good.” 

“Good.”

They sigh in unison, look in opposite directions, awkwardly scan the room… neither saying a word. They both notice the irony at the same time and laugh, eyes meeting with a warmth that startles them… and they drop their gazes quickly into their respective laps…

“You go first,” he says.

“No, you.”

“Okay. He pulls a deep breath, hesitantly reaches out and strokes a finger over her hand. “So… what I said? I meant it. It may have gotten lost in that avalanche of words, but I really do—”

“—Stop,” she gasps, yanking her hand away like he scalded her. “I didn’t ask for that,” she says with surprising force. 

Stunned, he looks down at the offending finger. “I’m sorry—”

“—No, _that_.” She gestures to where he’d been standing, like his confession left a stain. “Everything you said before. You unburdened yourself, and now you’re expecting me to deal with it.”

He stares at her, face clouding. “That’s one interpretation,” he says slowly. “Another is that I was trying to explain why I was cruel to you. Another is that I was getting things out in the open so I could stop pretending. Making subtext _text_ , if you will.”

“You’re _married_ ,” she says bluntly. She knows she’s being unreasonable, should have left when the impulse first struck her. Too raw, too hurt… 

He looks blindsided, shakes his head as though clearing it. “Yeah, no secret there. So are you. That hasn’t seemed to bother us—”

“—It’s always bothered me. That’s why I fought this… _attraction_ —”

“—You didn’t fight it very hard the other day in the Green Room when you grabbed my crotch.”

The words hit her ears like acid. She gapes at him, sees a flicker of regret in his eyes, but he doesn’t back down. 

“Wow,” she says, smoothing the soft fabric of her dress over her thighs. “That’s quite a nasty streak you’ve got there. I thought you didn’t speak that way to people you supposedly love.”

“Just being honest,” he says coolly. “That’s what this pissiness is about, right? I said the forbidden word. I dared to feel the forbidden thing.” 

“No,” she says, deliberately taking it down a notch. “It’s about you being angry with me for not telling you what you want to hear, when you want to hear it.” 

He goes very still, fixes on a spot in the middle distance… 

“You know, I envy Franco,” he says with a rueful laugh. “You let him touch you. You let him love you.”

“Franco loves _Elizabeth_ ,” she corrects lightly, not wanting to be reminded of all the games, the pretending, the denial…

“If you say so.”

“Please, this conversation is kind of deranged,” she says, determined to cut him slack because he’s hurting, but her patience is wearing thin. “Besides, I asked you to start small. This isn’t small.”

He doesn’t seem to hear her. “It’s like you’ve devised a system — let’s call it Becky’s Degrees of Infidelity — that says it’s not cheating if it’s with _Franco_.”

And that’s enough. “May I remind you,” she says sharply. “That you devised several systems of your own that failed spectacularly, Mister _Let’s Give it to the Camera_.”

His grumbles, rolls his shoulders. “Yeah, but I never—”

“—Mister _Be With Me,_ ” she interrupts.

He holds up his hands _. “_ That was before _—_ _”_

_“—_ Mister _Let’s be Them_ …”

As she trails off, he turns to watch her, biting back a clearly amused smile. “Finished?”

“Hmmm,” she muses, looking skyward. “I think so.”

“So, you’re saying, in your roundabout way, that this is all my fault.”

She pauses, wants to choose her words carefully, blame no one. “I’m saying that when you came back, we found ourselves in a very difficult situation, that some of our choices made it worse, and now we’re suffering as a result.”

“Some are suffering more than others,” he grunts.

“That’s not true. This isn’t easy for me.”

“But I should have kept my mouth shut, right?”

“Maybe,” she says more gently. “Why didn’t you? What were you hoping to gain by telling me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe—”

“—Maybe what? You’re _married_.”

He searches her face, hesitates, rewraps the purse strap that’s come loose around his arm and pulls hard. “You keep saying that. Is that your only issue?”

She shakes her head, her own recent hurt and turmoil very close to the surface, coloring everything. “I’m sorry,” she says as kindly as she can. “I just can’t tell you what you want to hear.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Please stop,” she says, suddenly so exhausted. “You have to let this go.”

“Tell me one thing: Why were you following me around yesterday? Why did you break character and kiss me in the studio scene?”

“That’s two things.” She dodges, feints. “Okay, then: Why were you avoiding me? Why didn’t you show up for our read-through?”

He leans close, eyes locking into hers, so hot and sensuous that she has to break the gaze. “Why wouldn’t you look at me when I asked you to,” he says. “The night I went down on you?”

The memory burns her to a crisp, makes her instantly wet. She swallows hard, regroups.

“Because I knew what I’d see in your face,” she says.

He watches her a moment, then leans back, taking his erotic heat with him. “Ah, the forbidden thing,” he says softly. “That’s what I thought. Yeah, that most certainly would have ruined the mood.” 

She’s glad he made that incorrect leap himself. She couldn’t tell him the truth — what she’d been feeling for him in that moment, what she would have confessed had she seen his face. She watches him sadly, aching that he’s in pain, knowing she could end it with a word… but that would only give him false hope. Regardless of her feelings for him, she won’t get further involved with a married man… and from the way he’s behaving, she suspects he won’t take no for an answer…

“On top of everything else,” he’s saying, looking as miserable as she’s ever seen him. “My daughter called that night. So trust me, I know I’m married.” He rocks back, stretches and lifts his feet onto the coffee table. “She wants me to go home. Try to fix things.”

This hits Becky like a reprieve, a weight lifted. She finds she can breathe easily again. “Things need fixing?”

“She thinks they do.” He rubs his hands over his face, thrusts his arms out and shakes them. “Wow. Yeah, this isn’t small stuff at all, is it? This is big stuff. The biggest. And sorry for the sniping. Apparently I suck at rules.”

She’s been watching him ricochet from emotion to emotion, marveling at the transparency of his expressions. He seems lighter now, but as he turns his attention to the TV, he rewraps and tightens the purse strap on his arm until the surrounding flesh goes white. The air in the room thickens, the tension between them becoming so unbearable she decides it would be a good time to leave — where can they go from here? She starts to gather herself, but he seems to sense her intentions...

“So how about that hot and heavy affair we’ve been having?” he blurts out.

She winces, must have misheard...

“Our bi-coastal fling...?” he says, tilting his head toward her, quirking a brow.

It clicks — this is his way of resetting the dial. A reach for normalcy, an invitation to play. “Oh, right!” she cries, grasping at the chance to stay with him that she didn’t even realize wanted. “Our torrid, behind-the-scenes romance…,”

“Our… backstage boinking…,” 

“Our… dressing room dalliances…,” she says, falling easily, gratefully into the banter.

“The stuff of tabloids. Right up there with Brangelina…,”

“But how clumsy of us to get caught! Here I thought we were being so careful—,”

“—Downright furtive even…,”

“Yes, so very furtive!” she laughs. “Somebody must have hacked into our sexts…,”

“Nah, nothing so high-tech. It was you, getting all clingy and obsessive…,”

“Me? You were the obsessive one. That’s what all the best gossip-mongers are saying…,”

“Yeah… it was probably me,” he nods. “Got all crazy, came on too strong and chased you away…,”

His smile vanishes, eyes going misty as they slip away from hers… and she can hear what he’s thinking as clearly as if he’s saying it out loud… 

_I did. I got all crazy, came on too strong, chased you away…_

He glances at her, and she knows he’s looking for reassurance. Irritated all over again, and she deliberately commits the greatest sin of improvisation — she leaves him hanging and doesn’t respond. At all.

He finally slumps, and says into her silence. “Yeah. All my fault.” 

He looks so defeated, but he’s doing it to himself, a masochist presenting his mistress with bigger and bigger whips…

_Thank you ma’am, may I have another…_

His bandaged hand is resting on his thigh and she taps it like evidence that she’s right. “So… what happened here, anyway?”

He turns sad eyes to her, presses his lips together, then holds up his hand and waves it with a flourish. “Divine retribution. Mortification of the flesh.”

“Or maybe… you cut yourself with a utility knife during a scene?” she says with mock sarcasm, intent on shifting the mood.

“Yeah, or that. Got myself good. Five stitches.”

“And of course you couldn’t just admit that outright, you big drama queen.”

# 

Her radiant smile has become a source of pain for him, but he valiantly tries to smile back. 

“Hey, no sniping,” he says, glances down at her delicate pale hand, longs to touch her again. She’s as close as a breath, but as far away as she’s ever been. Yeah, he was an idiot to tell her how he felt, to lay himself so bare. She’s right — she didn’t ask for it, clearly doesn’t want to discuss it, despite his obnoxious bullying… and now, all he can do is try to repair the damage, salvage whatever is left of them… 

“By the way,” he says, forcing nonchalance. “Regarding why you came here in the first place… I haven't actually had a chance to address the whole rumor problem yet, so feel free to go in guns blazing…”

She gives him a lovely little frown. “Then what was going on with Mo in the hallway yesterday?"

He flashes back to the confrontation, tries to imagine what she might have witnessed…

”Huh. You saw that? He was just spraying," he says, and at her confused frown he adds. “A guy thing. He was innuendo-ing. He was passive-aggressively suggesting I get the hell off his turf."

She nods, lips pursing, doesn’t seem surprised. "Do you think he's responsible for the rumors?"

“Do you?"

“Could be,” she says. “It's sad, really; he wasn't always so insecure. I think that as he’s gotten older, he's internalized a lot of Sonny as a defense mechanism," she says. "Is he trying to—" 

She stops dead, eyeing him. “What?"

He checks his face, realizes he’s watching her with a goofy, affectionate grin. “It’s endearing. You always want to see the best in people.”

She sighs, shakes her head. "Until I don't."

"Until they give you reason not to," he says softly, letting her hear his regret. 

“No, I came down too hard on you for not telling me about the gossip. I’d just found out something that…,” she breaks off, fingers tangling in her lap. “Well, let’s just say I overreacted, and I’m sorry. I’m also sorry for calling you an asshole. I don’t believe that.”

He barks a laugh. “Well, that’s kind, but you weren’t far off. And I’m sorry, too.” Without thinking, because it’s something he would have done quite naturally in the recent past, he lays his injured hand over hers… and lets it stay when she doesn’t pull away. “My motives probably weren’t as pure as I’d like to think.” 

She hesitates, face clouding, seems to weigh her words before releasing them into the world. “Neither were mine,” she murmurs, and like an awkward, guilty kid, she pulls a hand from under his and starts picking at a rough edge of his bandage... 

He blinks, sits up straighter, both on guard and hopeful. "How so?"

A piece of tape is curling up and she smooths it flat, but it stubbornly curls up again, won’t stay…

“When you asked why…,” she trails off, shows no sign of continuing.

“Why what?” His brain goes crazy, reviewing, pinpointing several pertinent moments… 

“Look, I’m… afraid of chaos,” she says, gamely trying again to make the tape stick. “Of making a mess I can’t clean up. Of hurting people I care about…,” 

As he watches her delicate fingers work at the tape, he replays the oblique words, delves beneath them like they’re a clue to something she doesn’t dare say. He recalls her picking up the beer cans just now, the pristine nature of her dressing room… and he knows from experience the futility of trying to make something clean once it’s irrevocably stained, of trying to fix what’s beyond repair… of trying to take back hasty words…

“I know,” he says. “And despite all my recent whining and blaming and shaming and neediness, I don’t want to be a mess you have to clean up. Seriously. I was being a jerk.”

She lifts her steel-gray eyes to him, and a wave of silent compassion passes from her and settles in his heart. “I am sorry,” she says, voice floating on tears.

“It’s not your fault,” he says, blinking back tears of his own. “It’s nobody’s fault. It is what it is, as they say.”

“Thank you,” she whispers and gently rotates her hand, giving his a quick squeeze before letting go… a signal that hand-holding time is over… 

He drops his hand into his lap, feeling desolate. None of this is a surprise, yet he is surprised… shell-shocked really, by the quiet death throes of his hopes. He eyes the beer cans, wants another, or six, maybe something stronger… yes, definitely stronger…

“So… tell me what you heard about my agreement with Michael,” she says, like a bomb from nowhere.

But she has a right to know. He climbs out of his hole and focuses on her. “The Pact,” he grumbles. “I’ve been calling it The Pact.”

“Okay, the pact.”

“No, you have to say it with caps, like this — The. Pact.”

“Fine. The Pact.”

“Close enough.” He fills his lungs, releases the air in a whoosh. “So, the scuttlebutt is that you were each allowed, like, ten affairs,” he says, the recollection curling his lip into a sneer. “He’s blown through his, and now you’re looking to catch up.”

She nods, impressed. “Ten. Wow. That’s some scuttlebutt.”

“Well, maybe not ten… you know how exaggerated these things get. But still…,”

“It was two,” she says quietly.

He gasps at this punch to the gut, and sags back with a scowl. Somehow, he hadn’t really believed it of her. “Two… okay. So it is true.”

“You know,” she snaps. “This really is none of your business, and if you’re still judging me—,”

He holds up a quick hand. “Not judging.”

“ _Totally_  judging.”

“A little judging. Mostly listening.”

She eyes him skeptically, continues. “It was Michael’s idea. He called them Get-Out-of-Jail-Free cards.”

Roger rolls his eyes, mutters and crosses his arms hard over his chest.

“Look,” she says, voice rising defensively. “I only agreed to it because he was restless, and I stupidly thought it might help if he knew he had… options. We agreed to two one-night-stands each, with safe people only, but I never thought he’d go through with it—,”

“—Wait. Safe people…?”

“People who wouldn’t threaten our marriage. People we’d never get attached to or emotionally involved with. People who don’t matter.”

_People who don’t matter…_

He swallows, winces at the flaming dagger in his heart… but she goes on, doesn’t seem to notice…

“I never intended to go through with it, either. I wasn’t interested. In fact, I put the whole thing out of my mind.” Her voice catches and she quickly twines her fingers in her lap again, squeezes them together until her knuckles go white. “But… I came across some emails… and… well, he did it. He actually… did it.”

Her evident pain momentarily overrides his. “You were hurt…,” he says, hand curling into a fist that itches to flatten her husband.

“Hurt. But more… stunned, really. I thought…,” she trails off. “God, I was so naive. Apparently, a one-night-stand became two, became a full-blown affair. But the pact was a lie, an excuse — he had her in mind from the beginning. We knew her… she worked on the show with us years ago. She still knows people here… that’s probably how this whole sordid mess became public knowledge.” 

“I’m so sorry.” Once he would have pulled her into his arms, comforted her… but he doesn’t dare now. “The dude is _fucking insane_ , if you don’t mind my saying.”

She huffs a sad laugh, wipes under her eyes and groans. “No, _I’m_ sorry. Ugh. I hate this. I hate that I’ve let myself be reduced to this. The worst part is the betrayal, the broken trust — the same things I attacked you about. I just… I don’t know what’s real anymore. I feel like I’ve been living in a dream—”

“—And you were forced awake. Yeah. Yeah, I get it,” he murmurs. “That’s a hard day.” 

She looks up sharply, dragged out of herself by the old hurt soaking his voice. “You too?” she says.

He swallows and shakes his head, deflecting, because there’s no way in hell he’s going there now…

She studies him. It was there, she saw it — a fleeting glimpse of something hidden. He usually presents such a happy, well-adjusted face that it never occurred to her he may have dark patches in his life, just like she does…

“Tell me,” she says, laying a hand on his arm.

He shakes his head again. “Focusing on you now…,” he says. 

“Please. I want to know.” Her touch is so warm and gentle that he feels his resistance thaw. He slumps forward, drops his elbows on his knees, pulls a ragged breath…

“So… humans are complicated, fucked-up beasts, right?” he says, with no affect. “And the way I see it, our needs are mysterious and ever-evolving. The idea that one lone, similarly complicated, fucked-up beast can meet all those needs, do it all, _be_ it all year after year… well, that’s just unrealistic. So my wife and I decided a long time ago to just look the other way. We called it being _flexible_. We were rock solid then. We knew we could take the hits.”

Becky absorbs the clearly well-rehearsed monologue,  tries to catch his eye, but he’s staring hard at his bare feet, unreachable, walled off inside himself. It occurs to her that he never used to do that… that he must have learned it from her… 

“But isn’t that what marriage is supposed to be?” she says, posing a question she no longer knows the answer to. “Two people choosing each other, growing together, forsaking all others, for better or worse—,”

“—Marriages are as varied as the people in them,” the monologue continues. “And sometimes in order to _stay_ in them, we have to negotiate, compromise, be willing to set aside our own needs—,” he breaks off, jaw clenching.

She watches his stony profile, intuiting everything he’s not saying. “I’m sorry if this is out of line,” she says softly. “But if we’re being honest, it sounds to me like maybe you did most of the compromising…?” 

He stiffens, fights down the knot of frustration and unresolved conflicts rushing to the surface. She’s rejected him, yet she’s judging his choices, is asking him to lay himself bare again, to present his proud, tender heart to her for further dissection. He feels dangerously close to unraveling, flashes her a warning look, but she continues…

“I did that, too,” she says. “I lived in denial for so long, for the sake of the kids, to maintain the status quo. And I became a lonely, dissatisfied doormat in the process.” She pauses, clenches her teeth — she’s recently had to face all these hard truths, but confessing them aloud makes her ashamed of her own complicity, makes her _angry_ , and she lets the anger color her voice. “I ignored my own needs for years. I allowed myself to be _diminished_. That’s not something I want to model for my children any longer.”

He’s been watching her face, the myriad hues of emotion… and he suddenly realizes that they’re _talking_ — not chatting, or bantering, not rehearsing, improvising or scheming — they’re sharing themselves honestly, in a way they never have before. He’s getting a peek behind her poise and her masks… and a real, complex, flawed human being is living there… someone not much different from himself…

“How long have _you_ been unhappy,” he says, stunned into dropping his guard. 

“Unhappy…,” she repeats, as though the word is unfamiliar. “Huh. I don’t even know. I’ve been numb. Is that the same as unhappy?” 

The question goes deep, and it stings him. He nods, knowing full well the long shadow one life can cast over another…

“I think it is. My wife… she sacrificed for us. No, for _me_ ,” he says thickly. He wants to spring off the couch and pace, but stays put, stays close to her as a sort of punishment… and a source of comfort. “When we met, she was training to be an actor. She was good. Better than me. Honest… fearless. But I got the break first. Then came a kid, and more breaks for me, and another kid… and we always agreed she’d get back to it, but she never did. She just kind of—,” he breaks off, laughing humorlessly. “And to add insult to injury, she had to put up with me making out with all these gorgeous onscreen partners over the years. Anyway,” he says softly. “I’ve been thinking that now may be her time.”

“Her time?” Becky says, leaning closer, hand tightening on his arm. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean, I want her to be fulfilled. I want her to be happy, pursue her own dreams and live the life _she_ wants. She deserves that. And maybe that life no longer includes me.”

As Becky watches him absently pick at his bandage, she’s caught between compassion for him, and a sudden surge of a shocking, ruthless _hope_. 

“What does your wife want?” she says, swaying inside, but keeping her voice neutral.

“We haven’t discussed it,” he says, tearing at the tape she was trying so desperately to smooth. “But honestly, I don’t think she would disagree.” 

The atmosphere in the room has grown hazy around Becky, making her lightheaded. If he weren’t here, she’d drop her head between her knees… but if he weren’t here, there’d be no need. She draws subtle breaths to steady herself, gives nothing away of the nascent excitement she’s feeling. She’d rejected this man, in order to avert chaos. She’d rejected her emotions, and any possibility of a future with him. It was the right thing to do, given the information she had at the time…

“What about your kids?” she says, neutral as ever.

He sighs heavily, looks toward the TV screen… but his mind is filling with images that make him want to wail — his kids, his _babies_ , laughing, tumbling, reaching out stubby arms for him — and the possibility of actually _leaving,_ of being little more than a satellite in their lives, hits him like lightning on a sunny day. But hasn’t that been the case for years? Haven’t they been getting along just fine without him…? 

“My son’s older,” he says, grief thick in his throat, tears gathering before he can stop them. “He’s fine. But my daughter…,” 

He wants to turn to Becky, draw on the compassion in her eyes for strength, but finds he can’t… not with these visions in his head. 

“She wants you to go home and fix things,” she says, understanding fully… even as the floor drops away beneath her. Her hand is still on his arm… she removes it and immediately seems to be floating. His voice, his palpable sadness… he’s truly on the verge of leaving his family… 

And for the first time since she walked into this room, she allows herself — just for one glorious, wildly hopeful moment — to be consumed by the forbidden thing, the thing she’s been so desperately keeping locked down… 

Love.

_** To be continued... ** _


End file.
